Quel'Thalas, Realm in Exile
by Jeremy
Summary: 6000 years of Quel'Thalas's history, told from the viewpoints of those who lived them. Chapter FOUR uploaded!
1. Prologue 3 BL to 2 BL

Quel'Thalas, Realm in Exile  
  
Prologue  
  
Three years Before Landing  
  
"Narra, you cannot possibly be serious."  
  
The voice was full of authority, and carried the weight of many millennia of time, even though the face it showed to the world perhaps never would do so, never could do so. It was a gentle voice, feminine and kind, and yet laced with steel and normally complete confidence. That was the way Tyrande Whisperwind had always been, and it was a rare sight to see her composure crack for any reason.  
  
But today it had, ever so slightly, as certain as gasps rang through the ranks of the Huntresses, young and old. The dismay was full of disapproval, and for good reason. For today, Narra Pureglade, one of Ashenvale's most charismatic and popular Huntress, known for her leadership abilities and Tyrande's own protégé, had decided to leave her home with the Exiles when they depart.  
  
The young night elf felt small and horrified of her own actions, but stood firm - there was only one way open to her, for the alternative would be an eternity of suffering. "Yes, my Lady Tyrande. I have made my decision, and will not change it. That is why-" she choked. It was so hard to say! "-That is why I have decided to leave you, my Sisters. When the Exile Fleet is ready, I will leave with it. For that reason, I can never be a Huntress anymore.  
  
This shook the older elf. Her face went taut for a moment before smoothing over into an impassive mask. Her distraught state came from many sources, the most powerful most certainly being the close relationship she and Narra shared. The other, Narra knew, was that she was the only Huntress to forsake her oaths to Ashenvale when she did not need to.  
  
But there was no other way to it. Oh...Levak...if only she hadn't loved him so much. If only she had seen what friends he had. If only Shando Stormrage had been more lenient towards those who didn't actively follow Dath Remar and his ilk. If only... if only...words that would never help her at all.  
  
It was too late for hesitation. She loved Levak, and he had been ordered into exile. She knew he didn't want her to leave with him - shy Levak, always so attentionate, had been uncharacteristically vehement when he had told her to stay in Ashenvale. However, something had come up...  
  
A Huntress, one which had even less centuries than Narra's own four centuries of time, spoke up, lavender hair flicking as she shook her head violently and snapped "I can't believe you're going to leave us like this, for this...this philosopher!"  
  
Tyrande and several others turned appalled looks at the impolite youth. "Naisha! I will not have this kind of language among us! Restrain yourself or leave this meeting!"  
  
Naisha looked somewhat abashed, but refused to bow her head. "I do not mean to be offensive, Mistress, but I cannot restrain my tongue. Sister Narra is one of our finest. She has already done much to help the Glades and those living within. And all for this...man! This philosopher! He's not a druid; he's not even a warrior! What could he possibly be that would make you go back on your oaths."  
  
"My unborn child's father." she responded icily. It had the desired effect. The younger Huntresses, who had been muttering and whispering, fell silent. A few of the very young blushed. The older ones looked surprised but understanding. Tyrande, for her part, only looked suddenly thoughtful, as if this revelation had opened many interesting avenues. It wasn't on any of them she directed her gaze, however. Her blazing eyes settled on an increasingly uncomfortable Naisha.  
  
"Yes, my child. We did not anticipate it, and for that we are at fault. But a druid has agreed to bind us, and did so some moons before this madness of the Exiles came up. He is my mate, and I will not forsake him. Not for my oaths, not for Ashenvale itself!"  
  
That created a stir. Many of the Huntresses started speaking at once, some arguing for her viewpoint, some adamantly siding against it. Unsurprisingly, most of those who sided with her were females who had a mate. Naisha, barely old enough to even choose one herself, puckered her lips in disdain, but didn't manage to continue her tirade under Narra's icy gaze. The Glade resounded with argument for a while, before Tyrande lost her patience with all of them.  
  
"ENOUGH! I refuse to see you squabbling like children. The decision has been made. Narra has exposed her reason. For my part-" her face lost a bit of its hard edge "-I think her reasons are valid. But Narra, do you not think that it might be best for your child if you stayed in Ashenvale? Away from the World Tree and the Well, who can tell what might happen?"  
  
Narra growled inwardly. It was, nearly word-for-word, the argument Levak had expressed, and she admitted that it had made her pause. The Night Elves had always been kept immortal by the natural strength of the old Well and its surrounding Groves, an effect kept by the combined might of the World Tree and the Well Illidan the Betrayer had created out of greed.  
  
But where the Titans had created the Well, the new Well was only a pale shadow of it, and it was doubted that its powers and that of the World Tree would extend far beyond the continent. Immortality might become mortality. It was a chilling thought to many Night Elves.  
  
But Narra had faced death many times in battle against creatures, which could easily have killed her. She did not fear mortality. She did, however, fear for her child. But even that was greatly dampened by the thought of telling her child she had abandoned its father. That, and the loneliness she would feel, made that impossible. It wasn't even a choice.  
  
So she simply faced her sisters and said. "My destiny was long with Ashenvale. But the moment we mated, my fate was with Levak. If he is forced into exile, then I shall go with him. I cannot do otherwise."  
  
"And what of the future?" an older Huntress asked "What of your future?"  
  
"My past was here. My future...who can say? Only Cenarius might have an idea, and I will never ask his wisdom. Let it be what it shall be."  
  
"Your future will change soon." Tyrande reminded her gently "Malfurion" was there a touch of bitterness in the great elven priestess' voice as she told the name of her beloved? "Has almost completed the fleet of ships, as you well know."  
  
She did. For the last year, ever single craft Ashenvale had had been rebuilt and refurbished, and cargo embarked to move a great population. It was an immense assemblage, and only showed the frightening fracture in elven society that Dath Remar and Shando Stormrage had stubbornly refused to mend. Many Night Elves would become Exiles - some only because they had been sympathetic to their cause.  
  
She smothered a flash of resentment at the two males who had callously allowed their way to interpret life to sunder their race. But there was no way to prevent it now. No one could, not even Cenarius. Neither elves would budge, and they were both far too powerful in their factions.  
  
This was only heightening the pain. She decided to cut it, lest her emotions break her composure. A lump formed in her throat as she said. "Anen Talla San, Sisters. Don't forget me."  
  
"Anen Talla San, Daughter. We will not." Tyrande's voice trembled ever so slightly. "We will never forget."  
  
This was enough. To hear it from Tyrande this way meant a lot to her. After her parents had been killed, Tyrande had almost raised her, and to hear her give her unofficial blessings was almost more than she could bear. Her eyes filled with tears as her grief, carefully kept in check, came to the surface.  
  
And so, it was with tears streaming down her face, but with her head held high that Narra left the Glade of the Hunt, leaving her oaths and her heritage behind her, and strode boldly towards the unknown future every Exile would soon have to face.   
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Five months later...  
  
Dehire Riverwing swooped through the lush, pleasant jungles of Ashenvale in his stormcrow form. The beat of his wings, once casual, was now pressing, impatient, not at all in keeping with the methodical appearance he so often gave. Today, the Druid of the Talon, Patriarch of the Seventh Starfeather, was taut with intent as he swept through the trees and greenery he had fully accepted as his home.  
  
If his friends and colleagues could see him, he though wryly, some might well have died from the shock of seeing him so driven. Even when, as a very young elf, he'd fought against the Burning Legion besides so many heroes, he'd given a disinterested facade, as if what he was doing was trivial. He had later found that it gave him a certain reputation of being untouchable but also calm and even, and so he had let this facade - which he'd first created to hide his own fears - become an integral part of him.  
  
But this had been before recent events. Before Dath Remar, a passionate individual, if misguided, had reawakened the need for using the ancient magics. Before he and his followers had begun to gain power and followers. Before the magical storm and Malfurion Stormrage's plan. The event had forced him into a more offensive position, and that was why he flew towards the heart of Ashenvale and the source of the Night Elves' powers and immortality: The World Tree, and the Well of Eternity.  
  
He flew over a group of night elves out hunting, and screeched. They recognized him immediately, and the hunters - mostly females, unsurprisingly - looked towards him and waved respectfully. He continued onward, until he reached the lush, towering surface of Mount Hyjal. On its peak towered the immense Tree of Life, a sight so immense and so very beautiful he couldn't help the familiar awe from surfacing, as well as his doubts.  
  
What was he doing? Did he truly think that his plan would work? He greatly doubted it. But he couldn't help himself - he had to try, if only for his own conscience, his own ability to live with himself. Elune knew it was hard enough recently.  
  
He finally reached as near the top that he could, and transformed, the elements he had clutched in his claws coming to rest in his hands as he resumed his elven form. He heaved a sigh. Although he was accustomed to its effects, he always felt transforming to be draining. But it was necessary that he come this way, from the other side of the Well, where few Night Elf ever went. He stepped down the ridge and gracefully hopped until he fell on one of the Tree's gigantic roots.  
  
He looked around briefly, and then opened a crystal vial, plunging it into waters of a deep blue. He felt and smelled the power of its immense magics, and quickly filled his vial. Touching the Well too much might be nefarious to his health. He carefully sealed the vial, and slipped it into a pouch he had come with. Then he turned towards the Tree of Life itself, and, gently, communed with it, slowly feeling himself be filled by ancient powers, ancient thoughts, amidst this he made his query, and begged the Tree, holding out his hand.  
  
The communion lasted both instants and an eternity, as it was often the case when one dealt with nature's primary forces. As it ended, he held his breath. If the Tree refused his plea, if its power denied what he asked - then all of planning was for naught.  
  
It was when he had almost given up hope, that he'd been about to close his hand and sadly let go of his project, that something dropped in his hand.  
  
Seeds. Three large, silvery seeds were in his hand, given to him by the Tree of Life. It had understood and accepted his plea!   
  
"Thank you, Great Giver." he said earnestly, bowing. He stayed bowing long moments, then straightened and opened a new vial. This wasn't empty. Instead it was filled with a fluid he had created himself, distilled from juices, herbs and carefully selected seve from many trees. It should, he had surmised, hold the great energies of the seeds until they were needed. Or so he fervently hoped.   
  
It was then that Dehire felt a presence behind him - one he knew well. He was turning towards it even as he heard the ancient voice. "I have witnessed any things, my friend, but I never thought you would succeed here."  
  
He turned towards the rich, ancient voice with a tired look and a sad smile. "I almost wish it hadn't, Cenarius. It would have made things simpler. Now that I have these elements, however, my path is sealed."  
  
The great demigod trotted down the ridge, followed by two Dryads, which was unsurprising. As Cenarius, the upper half of their bodies appeared elven, and the lower half that of animals of the woods, such as fawns and wild horses. The two gratified him with a saddened look, while Cenarius himself looked solemn. It was naturally impossible to hide anything from him. Even Malfurion could not.  
  
"Then the rumours of the wind are true." he said calmly "You will be leaving with the Exiles."  
  
"Yes." there was no need to add more words. But the Guardian of Ashenvale was not quite finished.  
  
"Why?"  
  
An easy question. But it did not have a simple answer. There were many reasons - some sentimental, some exaggerated. Some, indeed, angry explanations. He finally decided upon the one that struck close to the mark. "I suppose I feel a sort of moral obligation to go with them."  
  
The Dryads stared at him in confusion, but their patriarch was thoughtful. "A moral obligation. You imply there is wrong in these events."  
  
"Nothing is right in this situation." Dehire replied, then quickly added "Not that I lay the blame on Malfurion. Not all of it, assuredly. Dath Remar himself was a cocksure elf, an arrogant individual whose insolence I find most distasteful. I know that Furion had no intention of killing or exiling any elf, but after Dath Remar's folly, many endorsed exile angrily, beyond his will."   
  
"What bothers me is that he made the threat at all. Even worse, many people who would never have been exiled normally will be. This is dreadful. This is an unforgivable sin on our part, whether we wanted this or not." he finished, and a cloud crossed the Dryads' pretty faces.   
  
"So many friends are going away." one said, and Cenarius nodded, his brow furrowed and concerned, his tail twitching.  
  
"And where will they go? What is on the other side of the Maelstrom? Whatever happens, there will be much death, dearth and bitterness. Druids were there to help when the Continent was sundered. One at least should be there for the Exiles.  
  
The Guardian of Ashenvale looked at Dehire stonily, then a smile bloomed. "I am glad to see that some will look beyond the differences yet today. I understand why the Tree granted your wish, for your intent, although unknown in its detail, is certainly noble in its end. Go then, friend Dehire, and good luck."  
  
"I thank you, Cenarius. Now I must prepare for my journey. Perhaps we will meet again, who can say?"  
  
And Dehire transformed to a stormcrow once again, taking flight with the two precious vials that could well one day represent the future of a people.  
  
He looked upon lush Ashenvale. Yes, it grieved him to go. But he was a man or morals. His path was set. He would not allow himself to fail the innocents these disputes were callously throwing away into the unknown.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
  
  
Seven months later...  
  
The day had come. The day he had dreaded. The day he had helped prepare. He knew that he should be there, instead of lurking in the woods, looking on from a discreet vantage point. He found, to his sorrow, that he was unable to do more than this. He couldn't face them, couldn't meet these people - these elves - in the eye. There would be accusation in too many, and his shame would only be increased manifold.  
  
After all, Malfurion Stormrage, Archdruid, Shando of the Night Elves and Master of Ashenvale, had given the offer which ended today in sending nearly sixty thousand brethren to an unknown fate. To a man who had tried to preach peace and understanding, it was an unbearable failure.  
  
Still he looked, beholding a sight as beautiful as it was heartbreaking.   
  
Fifty great ships, crafted from the immense trees deep within Wintersping Vale, had been crafted through druidic means. Each of these were immense, majestic affairs, able to support a crew of many hundreds for nearly three years, its hold filled to capacity with food and tools. These, he knew, would be needed by the inhabitants to forge themselves a new life. Those that survived the trek, at the very least...  
  
He remembered when some hardliners amongst the druids had rankled at the expense and the work involved in readying such a massive fleet in so little time. Some had argued for the fleet to be reduced, the holds made smaller, or of giving away less tool to those they considered dangerous heathens. He had been furious at the mere suggestion, and had made his position clear to all.  
  
"The Exile must continue, to our shame." he'd said " But we will not be sending these people - OUR people - into danger without resources. They are elves, and I will not listen to other elves argue about giving them less chances for survival. I will not hear of this again. Am I being clear?" he had glared to all the druids, and none - not even the worst of them - had dared speak up on the subject again. The building of the Exile Fleet had continued as it had been scheduled.  
  
Tyrande and Cenarius would never have forgiven him if he'd done anything less. Ever since the final decision had been made, the Guardian of Ashenvale had been colder towards him. As for Tyrande, she still refused to even talk to him. Knowing that he deserved every bit of contempt he received hadn't helped matters in the slightest. He knew that they would forgive him eventually. But it would always remain between them.  
  
But he could live with loneliness. It was nothing next to what those people might suffer. He looked at the throng of people - forager, hunters and huntresses, druidic initiates, and people of ordinary vocations, all these had been swept away by the sheer purge that he had never wanted at all. He saw families huddling together, saw little toddler protectively held in the arms of their parents. How many would live? How many would die? His mind didn't even try to gauge the possibilities, lest the grief kill him outright.  
  
Amongst them, a visible minority - and yet just a minority, he noticed bleakly - were the full-blooded Quel'Norei and their descendants. All of them looked smug, triumphant, well dressed in intricate robes, lording over the rest of the Exiles, looking at the Sentinel guards in contempt. Amongst them, dressed in a robe of gold and silver, stood Dath Remar, as charismatic as ever. He stood on a pedestal and gestured as if he would speak.  
  
Malfurion couldn't contain a surge of ire at the sight. The insolent fool would remain insolent 'till the end, it seemed. He gave a look of innocence to all he did, yet had been the one who had convinced many of the Quel'Norei to attack Felwood with a magical storm that killed many and wounded many more. It had created such anger that the Archdruid's threats - which he had no intention of carrying out - had become law before he could do anything about it.  
  
Dath had betrayed these people, had doomed them, and yet was too blinded by his own self-importance to see it. For the first time, Malfurion felt an inkling of pity towards the leader of the Quel'Norei.  
  
Finally, after most had stopped muttering, wailing or talking, the elven rebel leader began to talk, his rich, measured voice carrying far, even to Furion's ears. "My people," he began, and Furion bristled at the smug conceit "Today the druids and the priestesses have decided that our place no longer belongs in Ashenvale. Our views are unwanted, our rights in this land denied. We have tried to make them see reason, but they are blinded by their own preconceptions." mutters came from some, mainly those who had left the Sentinels and the druidic orders. Furion spotted Dehire in that throng, looking bored as always, and felt another pang of remorse. So many good people lost.  
  
Dath was no fool. He felt the irritation coming from some of 'his' people, and moved to head it off. "I am not saying that these preconceptions are irrational. Most come from a time of fear and war, and it tainted their judgement. We cannot condemn it for that." he paused theatrically, and Furion once again admitted that the Quel'Norei had presence. "But whatever the reasons, we are here, forced to leave."  
  
Many people muttered, others sobbed, and children wailed, and Dath nodded sadly, as if he felt the individual loss of each individual. "We cannot forget that we are rejected here. We cannot forget that we are unwanted here. That is why I must tell you this, ere we embark for our new home."  
  
Another pause for effect. He had the attention of all now, and revelled in it. He squared his shoulder. "People of the Exile fleet, we are Night Elves, Kaldorei. And we shall remain known as such until we leave these shores. But the moment Ashenvale is lost to us, that it's few fades away from our sight and our journey begins, that name will also be sundered. From that moment on, we shall become known as the High Elves."  
  
Furion had expected it, but it still came as a blow.  
  
The High Elves. A pompous title. But, he was certain, the one the people would adopt over their exile.  
  
Suddenly he saw the break as surely as an arrow can pierce a target. These people, although elves, were no longer his own. Although some had been followers once, the Exile and the suffering they would face would make them angry with Ashenvale. As the years passed, they would break away from everything, and construct the magical realm Kalimdor once was, in all its corruption. Dath and his followers would see to that.  
  
And he no longer had any right to interfere.  
  
"By Elune, by all the spirits, what have I done?!?" he thought in agony, and even the forest seemed to condemn him, as its spirits did not comfort him this time as they had done so many times before. He grieved for these people. He grieved for their future. He dearly wished he could go back and change things, make them right, find a compromise.  
  
But it was the ramblings of a fool. He saw that, even as the people began to embark the ships. There were so many, it would take all day, even though dawn had barely broken the night. But they were embarking. They would no longer listen. He felt the bitterness in many of them and understood it. Parents held their children closer, knowing they might lose them during the course of the voyage. Others, warriors, went grimly, clutching what weapons they had. For each elf, there was a reaction. Few were pleased, none happy. Even Dath Remar looked somewhat sober.  
  
And then he locked gazes with Tyrande's wayward protégé, Narra. She stood ready to embark, swelled belly showing signs of her pregnancy apparent, and had somehow seen him. A very slender elf, looking lost, held her arm. Her posture wasn't one of despair. It was one of accusation, of defiance, of determination. The eyes of one no more than a child to him, and yet her strength surprised him at that moment.  
  
And then she broke eye contact, and followed her mate into one of the ships.   
  
He looked away this time. He could bear no more. No wonder Tyrande and Cenarius had been unable to come. These people were heading to their deaths, very likely.  
  
And yet... he saw Narra's eyes. And yet...they might survive. He hoped so. Turning towards the exile once more, he bowed his head. "May you find a home. And thrive."  
  
And then he ran away from the sight, his heart heavy.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
And so the Exiles left Kalimdor in fifty ships of living wood. Many deserved their fate, many more did not. The shame would become a taboo on Kalimdor, where the Druids would work to erase all traces of the Exiles.  
  
As for the small splinter group, its journey had begun. A journey wrought with conflict and despair, and hopes and glory. A conflict that would bring them to prosper, and to build in a land they would make theirs.  
  
To all of you who would read these pages, sit and take heed to these tales, as the years roll by towards the infinite.  
  
Take heed to the story of the Exiled Realm of the High Elves, Quel'Thalas... 


	2. Narra Chapter One 2 BL to 0 AL

Quel'Thalas, Realm in Exile  
  
Part One: Narra  
  
Chapter One  
  
Twenty Months before Landing  
  
Levak had been a philosopher all of his life. Even when he had been a child, so long ago, he had looked into the deeper meaning of things, into the aspects most elves found meaningless. Why did a person act this way? What would be the best way to do this, to do that? Why shouldn't magic be used?  
  
Why shouldn't magic be used?  
  
That simple question, and the curiosity behind it, had been his doom. He had been unwitting; he had been so certain that it would only be seen as a neutral demand for explanations and knowledge. Instead, the druids who had begun turning up those 'against' the established laws had labelled him a traitor, a man in connivance with the Quel'Norei. His defence had failed against these accusations, and he had been cast adrift. From his home, from his land.  
  
And now all of his knowledge, all of his complicated theories failed him once more as Narra uttered yet one more scream of pain, there, deep within the decks of the immense ship they were travelling in.  
  
"Hold on, girl." one of the ship's midwives told her, but from the expression on her face, it wasn't going well. He had heard her tell another that the baby was 'placed wrong' and that there were 'chances'. He hadn't caught the rest, but that had been sufficient to cause him terror such that the thunderstorms they had begun to brave so frequently seemed nothing but spring drizzles.  
  
He had met Narra Pureglade by chance, as he had looked upon a contest of archery. He had found her both skilled and beautiful, and had made a point to tell her. She had replied boldly to that, and later to his tentative overtures, until he felt she was the one who was shaping their whole relationship. Which she probably did. He had soon found out that as much as she loved him, as much as she respected his intellect and ideas, she sometimes decided things alone. And when decided, nothing and no one could move her into change.  
  
The only time he had tried to move the mountain she could sometimes become, was when the edict had passed that he should be exiled. He had pleaded with her, had contested her, and finally had angrily shouted at her. All of it had been for naught, as she ignored, riposted, or simply out shouted him.  
  
Finally, when all had been said, she had simply said. "You're my mate, Levak. And if our feelings were faked, I might consider what you're saying. But we aren't faking. You are my sarralai, and I am yours. I will not send you adrift. I will not leave you. I could never live with it."  
  
"But what about the child?" he had said as his last resort " The voyage might be long. He or she might die."  
  
"And he or she might die here. And here, the child would never be able to know his or her father. I couldn't live with that. Could you?"  
  
And he, in what he now saw as great selfishness, had let go, had accepted that she would come, whatever he might say. In fact, he had been infinitely glad to have her with him. And now, his folly might cost her her life!  
  
She screamed again, and as if answering, he heard the thunder reply. 'Another thunderstorm.' he noted, utterly disinterested by the matter. A part of his mind wanted to run away. To let go of Narra's hand and leave this place, so that he wouldn't see the following events unfold. But he didn't. Running would make him a coward in everyone's mind, and most of all his own. And he loved her too much to think it seriously. He held her hand as she contorted a bit, her eyes half-closed, and glazed by a medicine the midwife had given her.  
  
"Levak?" she slurred vaguely, before another frightful contraction took hold. It was coming, it seemed. The baby was coming.  
  
"I'm here. I'm always here." he said, and he felt her hand grasp his in a deathlike vice, which nearly crushed his bones. He endured it. He knew whatever he felt was nothing compared to her pain.  
  
It took an hour for the baby to be born. When it did, all covered in his mother's blood, she lost consciousness. He kissed her brow shakily and disengaged his hand, flexing it a second, before moving to the midwife and the people gathered around.  
  
At once, he saw from their looks that something had gone wrong. They were looking both sad and horrified, and the sadness only increased as he approached. He almost didn't ask them what was wrong, afraid of the answer.  
  
"H...how is the child?" he asked quietly. He knew already. It wasn't crying. But he had to hear it.  
  
"Levak...I am so sorry." the midwife said, still holding the bundle "It was dead before it even came out. There was nothing anyone could have done."  
  
He was a cultured man. He was a man who had investigated such things. He had known it had been something similar. But it still hurt. Oh, Elune! It hurt! Something blurred his vision, and it took him a moment to realize that it happened to be his tears. Narra's child...his child...dead...  
  
"How...what sex...what sex was it?" he coughed out.  
  
"...a boy."  
  
"A boy." he said quietly, and then nodded vaguely "Thank you for all you did." And thereafter he went to sit by Narra, cutting off whatever happened elsewhere, only gently rubbing her left hand and forearm in wait. His grief threatened to burst too often. Sometimes it did, he choked out a few sobs, but otherwise he just waited for her to awaken, pleaded for her to awaken.  
  
She awoke eventually, stirring as if from a bad dream - or rather a nightmare. The midwife had come and managed to stop the bleeding - something he barely registered in his mind. She moaned for a few seconds, then her eyes fluttered open, her eyes red and bleary, full of weariness. Somehow, despite all this, she instantly recognized him.  
  
"Levak, my sarrallai..." she whispered, and he wondered if she would still call him that after he would tell her the sad happenings that had just occurred. Would she choose him as a target for her grief? If she did, he would accept it, though it would kill him. The fault was partially his, however, and that would always stay with him.  
  
"Narra, my love." he said, unable to bring himself to say the ultimate word of intimacy. "I'm so happy to see you awake." he said at last, which was true.  
  
Her eyes began to focus more. "I am glad to be awake as well." then her eyes lighted a bit. "The child! Our child! Have you seen him? Have you seen how our baby looks like?" she asked that so urgently, so happily, that he was taken aback, then made mute. How could he say it now? HOW?!?  
  
"I...saw him...I...h-he..." his eyes filled with tears. Curse his weakness! That wasn't how he was supposed to tell her! Yet the words came out, the only way they could, saying the only truth they could. "Forgive me...h-h-he was...s-s-s-stillborn. Our child...died in childbirth." He finally wept.  
  
The effect it had on her wasn't quite noticeable at first. Just a widening of her eyes. Then she began to look over the place she was at, unseeing the other elves, unfeeling of the ship, which began to sway, of the mighty thunderclaps. She just stared into the void. And then seemed to begin to hiccup. He took hold of her then, his own grief be damned, his own guilt be damned, and held her as hard as he could.  
  
It was then that a sob, full of grief and despair, tore through her, followed by another, and another, until the mighty huntress of Elune began to bawl, her dignity forgotten. His own grief, and his tears, flowed with hers, and he kept holding her, feeling her clutch him, then hug him so tightly his breath was nearly cut off. He didn't matter - nothing matter except sharing and easing her pain.  
  
Around them, elves were shouting, many running above deck. The ship was now swaying strongly and quickly, and the thunder was ever present. It looked like the thunderstorm was upon them at last.   
  
But the two lovers who held each other never knew any of it, shut off from the world, enveloped by their grief.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Seven Months Later...  
  
The boat swerved from side to side, and water splashed the deck once more. Dath Remar saw thunder cracking beyond the power of any magic to control, and wondered why the sea seemed so frantic to try and devour them all. Already, three of the immense boats had been lost, and not trace had ever been found of them. And this was without counting the damage to the others, and of the people who'd been lost. From sixty thousand, they were now at well less than fifty-five, and that number seemed to ebb every day, just a little bit.  
  
Five thousand people.  
  
Of HIS people.  
  
For they couldn't be anything else, not anymore. The old druids, those blind fools, had shut them out of Ashenvale, of Kalimdor itself. Sometimes quite cruelly. Whether they believed in his ideas or not didn't matter. Although not Quel'Norei, many of them had begun to refer themselves as the High Elves, mainly from growing bitterness for the Exile, which had been caused largely by the druids' unbending attitudes.  
  
Although he'd affected an outraged outlook upon learning of the many people who had been wrongfully banished, Remar had danced inwardly. Sixty thousand people. Not just those who followed his lead, but many more. Sixty thousand. A true population. Exactly as he'd hoped. Perfect to begin a new civilization, one dedicated to returning the Elves - and the Highborn - to their rightful place, as they once were!  
  
The boat swerved again, and the deck shook, destabilizing even the nimble elven feet that trod upon it. Remar heard, from his private cabin, the larger rush of water, the screams of those sailing the ship as they tried to bring it into control. He frowned - this was worse than it usually was - and he had to squash a feel of helplessness.  
  
He wasn't used to being helpless. He was used to being in control of everything around him, ever since he had had been but a child. The strength of control was something his parents had given him, and he intended to make good use of it to bring the long dream of the Quel'Norei into a very real event.  
  
He nimbly passed his true followers, who looked about in a sort of haughty surprise, as the ship seemed to lose control. None of them seemed truly frightened. He understood why they felt that way: they had a destiny ahead of them, and there was no way that they might have anything else in store but its achievement. They all nodded to him as he walked past, and then up to the upper deck.  
  
He climbed, only to see to his horror that the situation was even worse then he had thought. Many sails, he saw, had been ripped off, and many elves were running to and fro, fighting to rig and repair, to save and stabilize. Many eyes looked wile with fear and disbelief as water soaked everything and thunder and lightning kept stabbing. One lance of natural energy stabbed into a mast of living wood, and it split in two, spitting fire, smoking as the downpour snuffed it out. Feeling a gout of fright inside of his gut, Remar went to look for the captain.  
  
He found her shouting orders to frightened and frenetic elves. She was an imposing sight, larger and taller than nearly any Night Elf - High Elf - on the Exile Fleet. It took two tries to get her attention, and she looked at him scathingly. "Yes?!?" she shouted, not seeing or perhaps not caring about who he was.  
  
"Captain Kallara!!" he shouted back against the wind. "Can you get us out of this storm?!? The ship..." he looked around "It is taking much water!!"  
  
"I can see that!! And I'd like nothing better! But we're caught in the current, and the wind's so strong our masts are all getting ready to break! We've skimmed to close to the Maelstrom!"  
  
"What about the rest of the fleet?!"  
  
"Too far behind, and even if they weren't, no one in his right mind'll come help us!" she gave him another scathing look "That course change is putting us all in danger, sir!"  
  
There was no way to say anything to that. He and his advisors had ordered the course change. They had been certain that they could brave the Maelstrom, while the rest of the Fleet would skim it farther north. They had been so certain they would succeed, but the way things looked....  
  
He couldn't think like that. He wouldn't. Too much was at stake here. This was what he'd worked for his whole life! He remembered when his father, a purebred Quel'Norei who had been there before the War of the Ancients, had told him that Malfurion and Tyrande were but poor leaders, compared to the one they had once served.  
  
"And who was it?" he'd asked alertly, despite his young age. His father had grinned and tussled his purple hair.  
  
"Azshara." he said with a fond sigh "She created a realm of unequal splendour, where magic was used commonly. It is to recreating that realm that all Quel'Norei aspire. It is to that that your life will be directed to."  
  
He had never forgotten. And although his parents mysteriously disappeared, he had taken his father's prominent place and had started to gather followers. He had tenaciously challenged the druids - even Malfurion himself, and had pushed the most inflexible of them to the very brink of inquisition.  
  
It had been then that he, along with the most gifted magic-users, had created that magical storm. It had hurt little, destroyed little, but had been the push that brought the Druids into full paranoia. He had played them like a harp, and his small group had become a true colonization fleet, even if an unwitting one.  
  
There would be time later. Time for the colonists to be slowly brought toward the ideals of the Quel'Norei, towards the dream that intended to rebuild a magnificent realm of magic in Azshara's name...  
  
"Elune protect us, NO!!" ALL OF YOU BRACE YOURSELVES!"  
  
Remar looked around towards Kallara, surprised at the terror in her voice, only to see that she and everyone else were running and taking hold of the ship for dear life. He wondered what could have happened, and looked around. He saw it immediately, and his soft purple tone turned to white.  
  
A tidal wave was coming. But not any tidal wave. It was a monster utterly dwarfing the immense ship. It came at them, a wall lost into the storm, impossibly high. It was as though a mountain had decided to become water, and had crashed upon the village it cradled. It went beyond reason, beyond possibility.  
  
Impossible to dodge.  
  
Death rolling in liquid form.  
  
In that instant, he started to move to grab something - anything! He knew, however, that he was too late. The leviathan was about to strike. For some insane reason, it rendered him furious more than afraid, and he screamed against it. "NO! THIS ISN'T RIGHT! THIS ISN'T THE PLAN! THIS IS NOT WHAT WE-"  
  
The water hit him, taking him away. It cut off everything, filling his senses, his nose, his mouth. Desperately he fought it, tried to reach the surface, but couldn't even tell where it was. Who knew if the ship hadn't been destroyed by this ungodly strike?  
  
'It can't happen...I won't allow it to happen!' he though as his body began to give up, to asphyxiate. 'Our magical realm...the destiny of the Quel'Norei...must be seen through. I cannot allow myself to fail.'  
  
Less struggle. 'Please...Elune...'  
  
His mind began to shut down, but still he struggle, one last time, allowing him onle moment of clarity, beyond pride and plans. 'Forgive me...my fellow High Elves...'  
  
And with this, Dath Remar finally let himself go to the water.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Four Months Later...  
  
The captains of every ship he had visited were all in agreement: the Exile Fleet had skirted the Maelstrom - where the radiant heart of ancient Kalimdor stood, long ago. It had skirted it, paid the price for it, and survived. Every seaman, every person who knew the sea even slightly agreed that the storm they had faced two days before, was the last for a good long while. The waters were calmer, the sun shone, all showed that the Maelstrom no longer gripped them.  
  
They had survived. They were less than forty-nine thousand now, all of them now wounded with friends or loved ones lost, but they had survived.  
  
Dehire, former Druid of the Claw, and now one of the few druids amongst the High Elves, wondered once again if the ones who had decided to send these people into this terrible ordeal had known what they were doing. He hoped not. He hoped his fellow druids - elves he was no longer altogether certain he respected - had done what they did out of rash arrogance, and not out of vengeful, deadly spite.  
  
'Enough, you old fool.' he chided himself 'Stop thinking as if you were still detached from this. You're no longer a Night Elf, no matter what you want. You saw what they endured, you saw the people, you helped them, you felt with them. You are an High Elf now, even if the name rankles.' There was nothing he could answer to the stern voice, especially since it happened to be that it was right.  
  
He swooped from the last ship he had visited to his own, the Remembrance. He saw that many people were roaming above deck, knitting sails, repairing masts, patching holes or simply working to reduce the damage wrought to the ship through the past seasons. The damage was less extensive then it had been, but the sorrowful marks, and the lack of happiness he felt from those who walked the upper deck of the living ship. Told of the horrors the Exiles had faced.  
  
He saw three elves he had come to know well enough on the deck, gesturing to him, and landed in front of them, immediately shifting from his storm crow form to his elven one.  
  
"Enthul-Talentha, my friends." he said, using a speech now used amongst the Exiles, abandoned in Ashenvale. "How are the people here faring?" he didn't ask the question with much optimism. The Remembrance held her name for many reason, but one was stronger than the rest: the most touched survivors, those who had been hurt the more by the Maelstrom's ravages, lived on the ship. They were the sick, the wounded, and those whose grief had driven to the darkest depression, sometimes even to madness.  
  
His three friends were those elves who had suffered as well. Salanil had lost his mate, and always seemed to look to his side, hoping she was still there. He was hopelessly distracted. Gaiena had lost her two sons to one of the thunderstorm. She always looked sombre. Flom, for his part, had been crushed by a mast, and felt pain whenever he moved. There was nothing but sarcasm in him. All three wounded, but coping, helping those who hadn't been able to. He respected them all immensely.  
  
"We lost twelve more this morning." Gaiena said, her voice rough and somewhat angry - she took every death as a personal affront. "Eight of them were from the lung disease they'd contracted, three from wounds so grave even our healers could do nothing. But the worst," he face became sadder, far more sombre "the worst is the man who lost his entire family. We knew he had lost part of his mind, so we tried to watch him..."  
  
"We failed." Flom said, his blue eyes flashing, his voice and body speaking of elegance and of bitterness intermingled, giving the green-haired elf a truly tragic appearance. "We didn't watch him enough, and this morning, he overpowered the wardens and threw himself into the sea, babbling about 'wanting to see them again'. He sank like a stone. He didn't even try to struggle."  
  
"He didn't want to. For a little while, when Calli died, I thought." Salanil shook his head violently, blue bangs flying in the wind "Some tried to go save him, but it was already too late by then." he held his peace a moment, then said "His name, I think, was Eamonus. Perhaps just Eamon. I'm not certain. What I am hoping, however, is that Elune did at least see fit, in Her Wisdom, to reunite him with his loved ones."  
  
Each time Dehire heard of this, he was washed over with deep sorrow. Suicide. To Elves, to any single elf, it was the worst possible way to die, and before the Maelstrom, it wasn't something the people even thought about. But he had seen the thought in so many minds. In those of parents who's child had died. In that of a female having lost her mate, in that of children being left orphan. In so many people, for so many reasons. 'We have never been used to death. We don't know how to deal with it yet.' he concluded. After all, death had been rare in Ashenvale. Some accidents, some people killed by monsters...but rarely such tragedy.  
  
He thought of the Night Elves. Of those druids back in Ashenvale who'd haughtily caused all this, and felt a flash of anger. Blind, ignorant, inflexible old fools! Had the elven heart truly gone that cold? Once again, he felt as if he didn't feel a part of the Night Elf society, as if he never had. This impression was coming over him more and more frequently.  
  
He was changing.  
  
They were all changing. But was it for the better, for the worse, or simply different?  
  
To break his thoughts and the sad gloom, which now held between the four of them, he spoke once more, this time in an irritated voice. "It seems the fleet's right on its way to anarchy. Now one's able to make any decision, except to keep repeating that we should go east, always east."  
  
"Didn't they try to make some kind of council after Dath Remar and his ilk went down the waves?" Salanil asked. There seemed to be a glint to his eye as he said this - he hadn't wept when the Conqueror, the ship on which Dath Remar and most of the Quel'Norei lived, had sunk, with only a few managing to survive. Few had, however. They'd held themselves as better than the rest of the Exiles, and had never fit with the whole group.  
  
Dehire nearly smirked. "Yes, but how can it work. Some Highborn are trying to wrestle control, but these don't have the charisma or the intelligence Remar and his advisors showed at times. Others are just mismatched fellows nearly shoved in their position, with little idea on what to do."  
  
"In short, it's more like a mess than a council."  
  
"An excellent, and perfectly viable way to put it."  
  
"Can't you do something about this?" Gaiena asked, morose. "You always have ideas on how to help the people here. Perhaps you could be of use."  
  
Dehire immediately cut her off with a wave of his slender arm. "No, my friends, no. I am no leader. I have ideas, but I lack the urge or the strength to lead these people. I could advise those who could make order in this chaos, but I can't do it myself. Besides, I am busy preparing my own experiment." He didn't elaborate, but he knew it had to work. Although the effect of the Well had only begun, it would only grow worse in the next few decades.  
  
Unless he managed to create something to maintain what remained.  
  
His friends exchanged looks, until Flom shrugged. "I'd feel better knowing you were there, but I won't push you into that den. You don't want to, its your choice and so fine by me." The others nodded, and he felt a bit better.  
  
He nodded to them, his face probably plainly showing the relief that they hadn't insisted. "I thank you all for your trust. Now, Flom, I have prepared an ointment which might help alleviate the pain some wounded feel. If we could go try it...?"  
  
He didn't need to say it twice. Flom was already moving - and swearing as he moved - towards the ladder grown from the ship, which went below deck. He heard moans from below: moans of pain, of sorrow, of madness. He shivered, but descended below to help these people as best he could.  
  
No. Not these people. His people. The people he was part of. He vowed never to act as if he stood apart from now on.  
  
From then on in, he would be a High Elf. Elune knew, he felt ironic and sad about the prospect, and yet it still fit.  
  
It fit frighteningly well.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Nine Months Later...  
  
The walls cracked, people screamed, and he felt his mother hold him tighter against her as she shook with fright. She wanted to protect him, he was certain of that, as well as he intuitively knew that there would be no protection as a hole appeared on the hull, and water began to gush through it. It was too large, and water climbed even more swiftly than it had.  
  
His father spoke quickly, urgently. He was frightened too, but it seemed a desperate idea had crossed his mind. He felt his mother tense, and then hold him tightly against him, whispering words he didn't hear in the cacophony of screams and wooden groans and lightning and thunder. He then felt his father take him, and grip him just as desperately as his mother had a moment before. His heart filled with an icy fright as a thought crossed his very young mind:  
  
They are saying good-bye...  
  
The water. The water was already up to his father's waist, and he approached the hole, the hole where the water was gushing from. Approaching it, it soaked them both, completely. He started to cry hard, sobs broken by the whimpers, water running down his eyes, gripping his father.  
  
And then the arms that held him wrenched him off, and thrust him through the hole. He didn't know how that was possible, how his father had managed, but he had. Water filled him. He choked on it, and knew that if he didn't try to struggle, he would die.  
  
And so he struggled as mightily as he could, his small arms flailing the water, thrusting and thrusting, his lungs choking on water, his mind nearly blanked in terror. Only the wet, murkiness of water was there around him. Still he struggled, because his parents had stayed behind, where the water rose, where there was no escape, and where they would flay about with no room to do anything...  
  
He broke to the surface. His lungs let go, absorbing air in great gulps. Water beat at him, lighting stabbed here and there, and his watery eyes looked into the storm, to see the ship, the ship they'd travelled on, the huge ship, sinking, its great mass filing. He saw people here and there, in the water, and it seemed as if he heard a scream. No, many screams.  
  
The screams of the people drowning.  
  
His mind overwhelmed, he screamed with them...  
  
And woke, hiccupping, being shaken gently by a gentle adult hand. His eyes opened, and he looked upon an elf he thought his mother for a moment. But the face was too soft, the ear not quite long enough, and the hair too deep a blue. He suddenly knew. This wasn't his mother. This was Weil, the elf-girl who'd taken care of him for the last year.  
  
Evorin Eltrass, youngling of barely fourteen winters, looked with teary eyes at his protector, trying to chase the ghost of his parents away, but unable to.  
  
"Were you dreaming of them again, Evo?" she asked gently. At his nod, she stroke his cheek gently. "Poor Evo...I wish I could help you. Will you be okay?"  
  
He was too young to do any sort of bravado. He simply sniffled and hugged the young elf-girl. "I-I-I can still hear them...hear them dying!" he wailed, and only cried harder when she hugged him back. Nearby, other sleepers stirred as his noise woke them.  
  
"Hush..." she said gently, looking around. No one, even if awake, complained. He knew elflings his age had enough pity and indulgence to get away with almost anything these days. Maybe it was even more than that. Maybe it was because so many elflings Evorin's age had died. "Lets go above, Evo. We'll get some fresh air that way, alright?"  
  
"Yes, Weil." he choke back, and took her by the hand, following her, as he'd done so many times before.  
  
He didn't remember how he'd been saved. From what he'd heard, it had been few survivors, floating on a large piece of wood, who had taken him out of the water, half-drowned. The fleet had later themselves rescued them after the storm, and it was on that ship that he had awoken - confused, scared, wanting his parents, demanding them so shrilly and so desperately that it had seemed to actually scare the adults. Maybe they thought he was becoming sick in his head? Well, maybe he had. Maybe he wanted to be sick and end it like this.  
  
But then, he'd come to know Weil, and she began taking care of him. That had stopped enough of the sickness in his head.  
  
Weil had been just over fifty summers, very young for an elf, still more a child than a woman. But she had gently coaxed him into eating, into looking around, into living. Maybe because she had also lost her parents, maybe because she thought he was pitiful. Evorin didn't care. Weil had become his sole link to life.   
  
His sister. Yes, his sister!  
  
The upper deck had few people, which wasn't a surprise for either. The sun had barely begun to send a few rays into the night, and the High Elves, not having much to do on ships, slept a lot. And much later than sunrise usually. They went to look out the sea alone, and Evoring climbed on a short barrel to see better, and looked out at the sea with the mingled impression of fear and hatred as he always did.  
  
The sea. The sea which had taken mommy and daddy, which had made them flay and choke and...  
  
"Evo, you have to start living again." Weil said, her young face serious "Fate struck you a cruel blow, but I think you have to keep on going. And not just that, but you have to go on enjoying life. Or you'll end up like Old Sob, see what I mean?"  
  
He shivered. The elf they called Old Sob had hanged himself, after his son had been killed. He had been a sad but gentle old man, and they'd both liked him. Finding him had driven the ship crazy for a while. No, he didn't want to end up like Old Sob. "But why should I stay alive?" he asked, "What's the reason?"  
  
"Well, from what you told me, your parents wanted you to live, no?" she asked with a sad look in his direction, before looking back towards the sea.  
  
Evorin also looked, his young mind more confused than ever. His father had thrust him outside, knowing that he was dead and wanting his son to live. Everyone to whom he had told this story had told him his father had been brave, but he didn't feel that. If his father had been brave, if he'd wanted to protect him, he'd have stayed with him, wouldn't he? But still, he'd saved him too?  
  
He sniffled, his mind confused, and thus it was in this state of mind that he noted the little black point on the horizon. He thought it was his imagination, so he blinked. Still there. He rubbed his eyes. He hoped he wasn't seeing things. His parents had always told him that his eyes were unnaturally sharp, that he could see farther than anyone. But still, he doubted.  
  
Until the point became slightly more than a point. And then he recognized what it was. He jumped forward, startling Weil, who looked at him worriedly. "What is it? Evo?"  
  
He knew what it was, and the scream, frightening in its intensity, shook the heavens in its shrill strength. "LAND!!!!! LAND!!!!!" he screamed, hopping up and down, knowing that this was it, that the sea would soon recede. That ground would be under his feet. No more nightmares. No more sickness there! No more people drowning!  
  
It wasn't long before other noticed the darker shape that others took up the cry. 'Land! Land!' Shook the ship, as horns blew wildly, as other horns answered it, and as more elves ran forwards to look, many of them screaming in joy, laughing hysterically, or just crying. Small as he was, Evorin knew what it meant enough that his heart nearly burst with a swift ray of joy.  
  
And then, he hugged Weil, sobbing hard, wishing his parents had been there to see it, as the rest of the elves sang and danced and screamed.  
  
"LAND!!!LAND!!!"  
  
The Exile Fleet, it seemed, had found its new home.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
On the Day of Landing...  
  
Narra Pureglade gently walked the last legs of water separating her from the shore, her eyes looking over the landscape with a face more still devoid of most emotions. Beside her, Levak walked, also absorbed by his own thoughts, but always nearby, always keeping his presence close to hers. It wasn't a patronizing presence, or even a protecting one - for she needed neither of those. But it was a gentle one, and that she appreciated.  
  
"It is different." She said at last. He nodded. Not inclined to talk much unless it was about something very serious, he had spoken even less since their baby - oh Elune, their little child, lost, lost! - had been stillborn. He hadn't spoken, given her the inane assurances that everything would be fine, when she had been nearly out of her mind with grief, for these few precarious days. He had just held her, and it had been enough.  
  
The landscape was indeed different than what she was used to. Instead of the lush, wet temperature of Ashenvale, the air was dry, although comfortable enough. Large trees were everywhere around the beach, but these trees were slightly smaller, and had stiff branches instead of lichen-covered ones. Some large ones, indeed, were sorts she had never imagine - cones of green, made up of green pins instead of proper leaves.   
  
Still, although it lacked the wet splendour of Ashenvale, this drier place had its own venerable charm. Her ears could pick up the songs of birds in the trees, she could see them flying in the air. She felt the passage of animals under the eaves of the woods, under the shadows. She also heard water gurgling gently from a stream no far away. The sun was shining, and a breeze came forth, gentle and full of the smells of life, from the new, primeval, beautiful land.  
  
She saw other elves already on the beach. Some were kissing the ground. Others hugged each other. Some seemed to laugh for no reason. And yet others looked around, coldly, ponderingly. Everyone was getting used to the new place, and many seemed to feel its difference from Ashenvale's jungles quite strongly. It would take time for these to start living again, for they were caught in their pain and grief. Some might never manage to be free of these emotions.  
  
Narra, for herself, still felt the strength of her loss strongly, sometimes so strongly she wept. But she didn't intend to let grief take her life away. She wasn't - wouldn't let herself be - like that.  
  
No, she would live. The High Elves - she no longer could bear to associate them with the Night Elves who'd cast them out so cruelly, so spitefully; not since her loss - had managed to survive. Ragged, wounded, diminished in number, but they had survived. She knew she had to do something to help them continue on that path.  
  
She would gather those males and females who remembered how to fight, or had fought, and see if she might help alleviate the lack of leadership the people needed. She'd throw herself into protecting, as she had protected as a Huntress under Tyrande Whisperwind.  
  
"We will do it, my love?" she felt him look at her "Somehow, someway, we'll live on here, because the Druids cast us out, cast us out of hatred. Because we didn't agree, sometimes just because we were a little different." her voice broke a bit, but she continued, "An there will be children here. Our children, and they won't be persecuted by some old, inflexible, cruel-"  
  
She didn't know what she was saying, only felt the slender arms of her husband around her more athletic shape. She heard him answer, his gentle voice also betraying his own, inward grief. "Yes, we shall. I'll see our people succeed with you, my Sarallai." he told her. It was then that she realized she had never called him such for all those months. She had been affectionate, but the word 'Sarallai' had never once crossed her lips. She understood the terrified looks he sometimes gave her quickly, the guilt his face sometimes showed.  
  
She hugged him as tightly as she could, angry with herself. 'No, no, don't think that, Levak. You've never lost my heart. It was always, and will always be yours. You are also my Sarrallai. You will be until I draw my last breath.' She couldn't tell him that, not with all those elves now running, more ever coming from the ships. But tonight, when they would be alone, she would ask him to forgive her. He would protest she had nothing to be forgiven for, but she wouldn't let him put excuses for herself. Not now. Not ever again.  
  
They stayed there for many moments, until they let go, their pride making them embarrassed, fidgeting - neither were very public in their affections usually. But she took and gripped his hand, Huntress pride be cursed, and he held on to it, philosopher's pride be damned. For the first time in twenty months, the grief in her soul seemed to recede ever so slightly.  
  
"A new home. In this land." she said. "A realm for the exiled High Elves."  
  
"Quel'Thalas." he said gently. She gave him a look, and he actually smiled. "'High Realm' in the old tongue. Fitting, in more than one way."  
  
Quel'Thalas...yes, she found that the name, although resembling that of Quel'Norei, fit the land well. Yes, as they were the High Elves, they would found a High Realm. It wouldn't be easy, she felt it well. But it would be worthwhile. Somehow, she could see it. It would be apart, very different from Ashenvale. And it would be home.  
  
And it was then, at that very moment, that Narra Pureglade began to work to better the future of her people.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
At the same moment...  
  
Evorin looked around, and wondered what his parents would have thought of this place, if they'd seen it.  
  
His mother would have found it too dry, and would have complained of that to his father, although her eyes probably would have been excited to be on dry land. His father probably would have replied in gentle sarcasm, and they would have sat down on the beach like so many did, looking at the sun or looking at him while he played with the water.  
  
But that image would never happen. He knew that. They would never sit down and enjoy the sun ever again, and he had secretly vowed to himself that, no matter the reason, he would never be near the sea ever again. It had spared him, in its indifference, and he never wanted to see it, or feel it underneath him. He would stay on dry land for the rest of his days.  
  
It was a solemn oath. One he would never break no matter how many centuries or more he might live.  
  
"Stop looking so serious, Evo!" Weil said, and he looked at her. She was grinning on the shore, and looked towards the sea, looking at the ships of the Exile Fleet, and at the people quickly leaving for the same, sandy beach, bordered by threes and the chatter of gulls and other birds. "It's a new day. And this time, the storm won't be there to hurt us."  
  
He looked at her, Weil. His only family now, and nodded, unwittingly more serious than an elfling should be. "I hope so." he said.  
  
And he stayed there, looking around, taking in the scent of life, making it part of himself.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
At the same moment...  
  
Sweeping in his bird form, looking down at the glorious trees, Dehire felt elation as he flew away from the Exile Fleet. It was a bittersweet feeling, he realized: the nightmare was over, and the people would be able to start rebuilding their lives, starting today. However, there were many people who had died in the crossing, wounding those who had survived deeply as a group.  
  
'Would you feel happy we survived, Malfurion?' he asked. To be fair, he knew the old Archdruid would be very happy to know this indeed. But he had reservations about some of the Druids who had done this horrible inquisition.  
  
He spied movement under the trees. It was only an instant, but his eyes had seen a form. He'd seen little about it, except that it was tall, green-skinned, and merged with the forest well. Some sort of Troll? Perhaps. This new land, it seemed, would have its lot of dangers for the forced colonists.  
  
He would have to go back soon. The transport of the medicinal herbs might need his supervision, and he would hate to see those be lost. It would be hard enough with them. To build a new civilization.   
  
It would be a civilization having little to do with Ashenvale. It would be something else, neither worse nor better, but different. Here, however, the High Elves would live their lives as they saw fit.  
  
Satisfied, feeling more hopeful than he'd had in far too long, Dehire the former Druid swept around and returned to his people.  
  
____________________________________ 


	3. Narra Chapter Two 17 AL to 50 AL

Quel'Thalas, Realm in Exile  
  
Part One: Narra  
  
Chapter Two  
  
Seventeen Years After Landing (17 AL)  
  
The rain had been falling for six days, dissipating the last vestiges of the harsh winter. The ground, warmed in previous days by the sun, had turned soggy under the trees, with rivulet of water streaming between rocky outcroppings, wet pools forming as the ground found itself unable to drink the melted snow and the pouring rain both. In fact, after six days, much of the forest area had turned to a virtual swamp.  
  
Fortunately, this terrain was one Narra Pureglade and the others of her group had been accustomed to ever since they had been but small elflings, for many swamps existed within the confines of the jungles of Ashenvale. Their long, supple limbs nimbly jumped from slippery branch to slippery branch, while other ran on the wet earth, not even making a noise.  
  
Night was falling, which pleased the former huntress immensely: no creature had ever been able to fight and navigate through the night as elves could, be they High Elves or Night Elves. Her keen eyesight looked through the trees and the ground, and finally found traces of a campfire, well hidden, and almost washed away by the rain.  
  
She made a sign, and dropped from the branch, expertly falling on her feet, scanning as always. Others took swift position above and about, arrow nocked and ready to let fly at the barest hint of a threat. Two others came near and looked around, then at her. Of all of them, only one did not have the looks of a warrior. He was the only male of the group, and his powers came from the forest itself, as he was a Druid of the Talon.  
  
"Here, Dehire." she said "They were here. This has all the signs of a cautious fire made of dead wood." she saw the rocks, now somewhat haphazard but still in a rough circle, a piece of soggy meet she saw as being deer venison. "They were four here, which is exactly what Remarra sent here."  
  
"Yes." the druid wrinkled his nose in distaste "I can feel small ebbs of arcane magic. Attack magic, if my senses do not deceive me. Typical Remarran scouting party."  
  
"And typical Remarran foolishness, as well." she growled. "To have a scouting party start a fire on the edge of Troll hunting ground. I can't believe that the Highborne would keep doing these acts."  
  
"I'm afraid that the death of Remar and his chief advisors hasn't robbed those who remain from thinking their way is the right way. Such is the way for all of the Five Settlements, including ours."  
  
Narra bit back a protest, knowing that what the older elf was saying was right. It was the way it had been, after all, for fifteen springs.  
  
When the High Elves had finally arrived, their numbers frightfully reduced - she could still remember the night she lost her child with aching grief - there had been little in the way of steady leadership, and eventually the people had broken up into two, then three, and finally four groups in a matter of weeks, and each had gone out to establish their own ramshackle town in order to survive - a task made necessary by the approach of the winter - a winter so much harsher than what they ever had in Ashenvale.  
  
The groups, losing members to initial starvation, disease, and the winter, had built four towns. Remarra was founded by the remaining Highborn and the followers they had convinced. They were, in general, haughty, clutching their magical strength. The fact that the power of Magic was weakened in the area didn't deter them. Two other groups - one intensely matriarchal, the other one isolationist, had been formed as Crystal Stream and Baivan respectively.  
  
Then there had been the last group. Fewer in numbers, they were made of elves that had never recovered from the Exile. This group believed that only by cutting all ties to the ways of the Night Elves could stability return, and their extreme ideas made them outcasts in High Elf society. Angered by what they saw as blindness, they had struck away and built the Enclave, the most dangerous of all High Elf points of civilization.  
  
But the near-anarchic nature of the four towns hadn't been what had led several former Sentinel warriors to gather together. It had been the discovery of the existence of Trolls. Long a legend in Ashenvale, these enormous, violently intelligent beasts were found to prowl many regions of the forests, seemingly having delimited hunting grounds, but increasingly raiding the High Elf patrols and foragers.  
  
This had led the former Sentinels to gather and found a fort they had named Silver Glade. There, they had struck against the trolls as best they could, and established an actually effective council. How it had happened that Narra seemed to be regarded the head of the council wasn't clear even to her. What was certain is that it had attracted people by its stability. From a military place of two hundred, Silver Glade had grown into a town of over three thousand, with more arriving each moon.  
  
Although uncomfortable with the increasing way most had to look to her for answers, Narra appreciated some of those who came. Dehire was the foremost, second only to her own husband, as the elf she could talk to and decide things. Although slightly inflexible and carrying direct disdain for magic, he always had a level head and could be counted on.  
  
She stood now, looking around for more clues as to the fate of the Remarrans. She spotted quite a few broken branches in the area, and one tree was blackened with soot. "There was a battle here. They were probably caught by surprise and barely had time to defend themselves. These elves probably weren't trained enough for this mission. If only the Remarrans had told us before." she gave an angry huff "This can't go on like this!"  
  
Dehire's look was musing and sympathetic as he nodded. "No, it can't. Dearth, bad leadership, and now the trolls are all conspiring to gnaw at us as we stand separated."  
  
"Its not just our numbers falling which unnerves me. The Streamers are formidable in weapons craft. The Baivans are actually managing to grow edible foodstuffs, eliminating tricky foraging. The Remarrans have magic - which could actually might be useful here. We have a relatively stable deciding group and some better warriors. And no one communicates, everyone keeps to themselves, trying to find their holes, while we slowly voyage towards our doom!"  
  
"All true. Every word." he answered calmly "What do you propose we do about all this then?"  
  
And here was another thing she was beginning to seriously hate. This tendency people had to give the deciding power to her. Even Dehire did so. Even, to a lesser degree, Levak did so. She saw it in the looks of those up in the branch, to the others around the trunks, all standing in the downpour. They all seemed frustratingly faithful towards her, and it irked her sometimes.  
  
Or was it because of this increasing void she had begun to feel over the years, deep in her soul?  
  
"Dath Remar and all those who would have led us are dead, killed in the Crossing." Levak had told her when she had mentioned it to her. "So far, you've been the most decisive, the most stable, the most wrought with personal ideas and initiative. So of course people are following your lead all the time. Few others are truly stepping anywhere."  
  
She opened her mouth, and then closed it, took and nocked an arrow at the lengthening shadows, followed by all the others as faint noises were heard over the drips of the rain. They stood there for a few moments, just long enough, blatant enough, for the noise to stop, and then subtly reverse course. She saw, at the edge of her night vision, what she feared she would find. Trolls. Only three of them. Not nearly enough to take on the thirty High Elves.  
  
"We have to move back. Out of here, to the Diamond River, and straight on to Silver Glade. These Trolls are going to be after us in greater numbers within two hours. We need to make as much headway as we can." she gestured to the other elves around her, and all swiftly climbed up the trees, even as Dehire assumed his bird form to warn them if other trolls arrived.  
  
"But what about the Remarrans?" one of the youngest females asked her.  
  
She gave the young one a tired look. "We already know what happened to them. Its clear."  
  
She shivered just thinking about it, but controlled herself. As sad as it was, they wanted her to lead. The least she could do was to act the part. "Trolls only do one thing with those they capture. They eat them." She then left the shocked youngster to herself, and began to speed through the trees. She couldn't wait to be back to Silver Glade.  
  
Things had to change. And if she had her way, things would.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Four Years Later (21 AL)...  
  
"There is no doubt about it: Silver Glade is becoming a danger to our plans."  
  
"Who would have thought that it would, in only eight summers?"  
  
"Whatever the reason, we can no longer treat them as inconsequential. Many elves have already been drawn by the rhetoric its leaders are spreading."  
  
"Indeed. This is not at all the plan Dath Remar and we Highborn Lords had in mind."  
  
"That plan was flawed from the beginning!"  
  
Where an instant before the discussion had been frantic and quick-paced, the next silence fell like a silent gong. Eight elves sat around a table, set in the middle of a warded chamber made of rough stones. Remarra was still but an agglomeration of wooden huts and hovels surrounding by an even rougher palisade, but the Quel'Dorei Council couldn't live in one. They had convinced the people of that, so that, despite the few stone sources, the small mansion where the Council lived and debated was made more of stone than wood, and stood out quite fittingly.  
  
The eight who formed the Council were all that remained of those Quel'Dorei who had potent magical might. Each had been lucky not to be in the ship which had killed their leader and so many of their number, and for two decades of time they had been amassing power to resume the plans they had when the Exile Fleet left Kalimdor forever.  
  
To a certain point, they had succeeded, convincing some others to join their cause, to throw off the shackled of Night Elf life and embrace the new, better order that magic could give. The people of the Exile fleet had been all too willing to listen, and so Remarra had become a powerful stronghold, eventually setting up a presence in Crystal Stream and Baivan, and sending any crazed people or undesirable to the Enclave. They had begun to make many strides forward.  
  
And then, Silver Glade. At first a laughable outpost of warriors, it had grown because of its ratio of experienced fighters into a sizable settlement, which told the High Elves that magic, if it must exist, had to be ruled by set laws and that nature could not be abandoned. This did not please the Highborn Lords. And now, to hear one of their own inferring their own plans were nonexistent did little to ease the mood of the other seven.  
  
"Explain yourself," the oldest snapped from the head of the table "Why should our plans, carefully prepared, suddenly seized to have the importance we know they have."  
  
"Because we are setting up spies to pit two settlement against one another, and because we intend to eventually harm another. I do not like Silver Glade's edicts on magic, but perhaps they have sense. Control would have to be observed so as to not repeat the errors of the past."  
  
"Nonsense! That is pure druidic rhetoric! Magic is the flow that keeps us alive. We should be able to use it without restriction!" another Highborn spat, eyes flaring indignantly.  
  
The vehemence of the answer did not deter the other, long-nosed elf. "In a way, the question is academic. I know you can all feel the cold within us, the void in our hearts. Our magic is failing, and without a way to clear this spiritual void, we cannot teach others the basics. We will dwindle quickly enough, since we kept so many of our secrets already."  
  
This stopped the others. Yes, they could feel it within themselves, this cold, which gnawed for a food they couldn't give. Yes, they knew that their spells - the few greater spells they had managed to save - were losing power even as they spoke. They also knew few other High Elves knew how to use arcane magic at all. All this was absolutely true. But none would allow himself to admit it.  
  
"We will find a solution." the head of the Council stated with confidence. "However, you can rest easy: the plan is still well in hand. Our own population has grown from new arrivals, and the disruption our people will create in the two towns we are watching will allow us to become more powerful. If all goes well, we will become the foremost High Elf power."  
  
"What about Troll incursions? And Silver Glade?"  
  
"The trolls have so far mostly left us alone, and the losses we had are, I must say, inconsequential. As for Silver Glade, I would not worry. They are so close to Troll territory, they will not last long." the elf smiled grimly. "And when its breaks, we will be there to pick up the pieces."  
  
After that declaration, the meeting soon ended. All had work to do to make the plan work.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Three Years Later (24 AL)...  
  
Cuana had prayed to Elune that this day would never come, that she would never be caught in this sort of situation. She knew that the priestesses had no love for men - which was causing increasing trouble in Crystal Stream - but she was wise enough to know that their matriarchal edicts never said to go out and kill another elf. It had always been against everything the entire elven race stood for.  
  
Yet here she was, pointing an arrow straight at another elf, ready to let it fly and break this important moral rule.  
  
"I'm telling you, we don't mean any harm towards Baivan. We just want to get the berries in that field."  
  
"That field belongs to us." the leader of the Baivan party stated stubbornly. "You Streamers should turn around, and leave our territory. Now, are you going to do that, or are we going to have to convince you to do it?" At these words, the male Baivans drew rough iron swords - swords ironically made in Crystal Stream and traded against food. Everyone tensed, hands hovering on dagger, on sword hilt, on bowstring.  
  
Death could come any moment now.  
  
'Elune, help us!' Cuana thought feverishly. Nevertheless, she had a duty to the people living in Crystal Stream. Desperately, she hoped this male would be more understanding than the majority of his gender. "You don't understand, we need that food more than you do. We don't have crops like you do; we don't know how to grow them. And the fruit here could feed our people for a while."  
  
"That is sad to hear." the male said, although he didn't sound sad at all, his face set and stiff "But this is too close to our town. I will not allow Streamers to take up residence this close. I cannot. My orders are clear."  
  
"And my orders are to get food for my people."  
  
"Then you have a problem, since this food belongs to us."  
  
The tension was rising between the two groups. It could be cut with a knife. She began sweating despite the relatively cool temperature. "We can trade for it, if you wish. Perhaps we could give you more weapons for it. I'm certain-" she tried again desperately, but the male roughly cut her off.  
  
"You're not listening!" the male growled, "You have no right to be here! Now leave before we take matters into our own hands!"  
  
Her anger flared at the rude tone and the words themselves. What a blind, cold-hearted fool! "YOU don't understand! We need-" and again her tirade was cut off, but by something even more ominous. Driven by either anger or tension, one of her people let her arrow fly, hitting one of the males on the shoulder. He grunted in pain, shock on his face.  
  
A surreal moment of stillness followed.  
  
And then everyone was shooting, or grabbing his weapon and charging. She shot the male in front of her on instinct, just as he brought his blade up. He too seemed to do so reluctantly at first, but when her arrow took him, he growled in pain and charged. She drew her long dagger and parried as best she could, while all around her elf trusted, slashed, shot, bled. High Elf was facing High Elf in a way that it should never have been.  
  
Deep down, as she fought, she knew something precious had been broken.  
  
As she let go of her bow and she and the wounded male began their deadly dance of life and death, she wondered why the priestesses were ordering them so close to the Baivans recently. Their orders, always a bit uncertain, had lost most of their sense long ago. Still, it was nothing compared to the last few summers. It was as if those leading Crystal Stream wanted to fight the Baivans.  
  
But she'd made an oath to the people living there, and if it meant putting up with an uncertain leadership, if it meant fighting her own kind, then that would be that. The Exile taught her that to survive, sometimes one had to be ruthless.  
  
The male showed more skill than most of the new swordsmen some males had created, reviving something not seen in thousands of years. But he was still slower than she was, and his wound sapped his strength. She sidestepped him, and tripped him to the ground rather easily, and poised her dagger on his throat. However, she found herself unable to finishing strikes. She saw other battles having the same reluctance, the same sluggishness she would never have detected if elves had been fighting anything else but elves.  
  
Then a gust of wind that easily felt like a magical summoning struck many of the fighters still up, and all stopped as their weapons were torn from their hands, or as balances forced many off their feet.  
  
"Well, I say!" a female voice, caught between amusement and outrage, sounded, "Have you all gone mad?!?"  
  
An elf then appeared, and Cuana saw from her dress and the ones that the others with her wore, that she was a Remarran. Her first thought was to be relieved that someone had come to break this terrible fight. The thought, which immediately followed, was that something about the haughty elves' appearance which was too sudden. Too...convenient, if that was possible. It almost felt as if...as if they'd been...waiting.  
  
"Well? Would anyone care to explain?" the Remarran said, and the gleam in her eye unnerved Cuana."  
  
Yes, something was wrong with all this. But what exactly was it?  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Six years later (30 AL)...  
  
Levak was scribbling notes, using paper and ink he had managed to make himself, while Dehire lounged under the tallest tree, and Narra sat on a small, round boulder. Others were also present, all in their usual position. Their was a near casual air to this meeting, if one had penetrated the grove by accident - even though all knew that the leadership of Silverglade made its decision in the small grove at the edge of the town.  
  
The conversations themselves, however, were as tense as could be, as Levak bit his lips and asked. "Are you certain of what you're saying?" he asked Narra, and she sighed.  
  
"I wish I could say I WAS uncertain, but there's simply no doubt: Remarrans are seen all over Baivan this past year. You know what this means."  
  
"They have finally taken control." Dehire said, nodding. "Its not like we didn't expect it to happen."  
  
Levak actually snorted. "After all they did to undermine both Crystal Stream and Baivan? We'd be blind if we'd miss it. They're setting themselves up to recreate Dath Remar's pseudo-utopic vision, and for now at least they're succeeding."  
  
Narra's lips thinned. With the Remarrans in control of Baivan, they effectively controlled half of the elven populace, and the one, which knew how to grow crops the best - so far Silver Glade's own efforts had given minimal result. It gave them considerable economic - not to mention political - weight in High Elven society.  
  
She smirked to herself. She was even starting to think in terms of politics. This was a far cry from protecting Ashenvale, riding her tiger. But it didn't stop the fact that this was the truth.  
  
"One good thing is that some saw through what the Remarrans did, and came here." Silverglade had swollen to over eight thousand because of that new influx. "Some know how to cultivate the plants here. In a few years, we won't have to depend on foraging as much."  
  
"But until then, they will be the ones with that secret. They will have the edge." Another council member noted "And then there's the Streamers getting near to collapse. Add to that the Trolls incursions becoming more frequent in our area, and the Enclave slowly growing - Elune knows what is happening there! - and I'd say we're all in for a lot of fun in the future."  
  
Narra thought about the situation, and then, as she had become accustomed to even as she didn't really like it, she made a decision. "We can't allow the Streamers to collapse. If Crystal Stream goes under, the Remarrans will move in, and then we will all be caught in a society where magic moves about recklessly. No, we will have to make certain the Streamers stay alive - even if we have to lead them ourselves!" She saw it didn't please many, but that they all understood what she meant. None would oppose her actions. "And then there's this...void...we've all been feeling. It's growing ever so slightly every moon."  
  
The druid sighed at that, his face actually appearing to be wrinkled. "I know. I have known the cause for some time. In fact I suspected this would happen. I...think...I have a solution. But it will take time to realize it. Once I manage, I think we will have to move our people there, to regain their strength." He then closed his eyes, signalling he would say no more.  
  
Levak shook his head. "Eventually, that will make Remarra move directly against us."  
  
"You are wise and quite right, brother elf." a voice sounded even as a burst of magic was felt and a long-nosed elf appeared, wearing the garments of an Highborn Sorcerer. All reached for weapons, but he held up his hands placatingly. "Hold, hold! I apologize for my appearance, but I truly have no quarrel with you. In fact, I wish to help you."  
  
Narra had gripped her bow, and held an arrow in her other hand, looking at the other elf warily. He didn't look violent, but who could say with Highborn sorcerers? However, she knew she would only be playing the games of those druids who had exiled them if she didn't listen. "Very well. Speak then."  
  
"I would wish to join Silver Glade. And so might a few people I am teaching."  
  
"A spellcaster, here?" Dehire sniffed "Hardly possible."  
  
"Dehire." Narra gave the druid a warning look, and then turned her gaze on the elf. "You would come here? Why?"  
  
"Your ideas are sound. I cannot stop using magic, but I can easily see the sense in making rules. I would follow them, and help you create a safer magical order."  
  
"And what do you bring which could convince us?" Dehire challenged. Narra frowned; she understood the druid's reasons for being so aggressive, but at the same time, it was counterproductive. It didn't seem to annoy the other elf, who answered simply.  
  
"My brethren intend to destroy you within thirty summers, perhaps less." he nodded at their shock "Yes, not subjugation, but destruction. Complete destruction."  
  
Silence, and then Narra nodded. "Good enough so far. Welcome...?"  
  
"Medarin, milady."  
  
"Then welcome Medarin. For now, at least."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
One year later (31 AL)...  
  
Evorin felt, despite the hole inside him, as happy as he could be. He hadn't agreed with Weil when she'd decided they'd go to the newly forming Silver Glade. They had fought about it, and finally she'd made the decision and he, not having anyone else, had come with her. However grumpy he had been at the beginning, he had found that he loved the growing city.  
  
He had begun to like it because of the peace he had found here. Elsewhere, people had been uncertain, afraid. Here, people knew what they had to do; they had a purpose and a sense of future. Even as young as he was, he understood the importance of that. That was why he was working so hard to pack arrows. Because of the peace here. And mostly, for Silver Glade's great leader, Narra Pureglade, whom everyone admired.  
  
His ears picked something up from the trees nearby, and he stopped working on his arrows to listen.  
  
"She is becoming too powerful. She might put the plan in complete jeopardy." one voice hissed.  
  
"Be patient. We will watch her. She won't always be on her guard, or protected. At one point, we will be able to strike at her." A second voice said, more calmly. Male. They were both male.  
  
"By the time we can, the damage she'll do..." the first voice protested.  
  
"That can't be helped. We strike now, we get lynched the moment after, and you know it. No, we will wait for our chance. And then, I assure you, Narra Pureglade will die."  
  
It took many moments for Evorin to breathe again, even when the voice left. When he did, his young mind whirled. Someone wanted to kill Narra Pureglade. But why? It didn't make sense. What could he do? Tell someone? He doubted that was wise, after hearing that.  
  
No. He, Evorin Eltrass, would keep his ears open, until he found those who wanted to hurt Pureglade. At least, eh would do it when his heart stopped beating so fast and his hair fell back down!  
  
Yes. That's what he'd do.   
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Eight years later (39 AL)...  
  
The air was heavy with fear and anger this autumn night, as Gaonen Fellwinder ordered her party to take position for what would be, her heart told her, a final stand. All around her, seventeen males and females had unstrung their bows and nocked arrows, fingers rendered rigid by defiance and grim knowledge. Still, no one tried to run as the trolls closed around on them.  
  
There had been thirty of them to begin with, under the command of Brecella Cutfreeze. They had been given the mission by Narra Pureglade herself: to seek and see if the trolls were truly trying to extend their reach to Silver Glade itself. This decision had come after many clashes - always increasing - had happened between elves and trolls in the last decade. They had accepted, and had gone proudly.  
  
They had found far more than they'd bargained for. They had seen many dozen of trolls gathering for a major raid, far too close to Silver Glade's hunting and foraging grounds for comfort. Brecella had decided to immediately send the three fastest females she had towards their town so that the defences would be ready, and had then decided to stall the trolls as long as she could, gathering everyone's assent.  
  
But the trolls, somehow, had spotted their initial movement, and had attacked in force. In the savage battle, which followed, Brecella had fallen, and Gaonen had barely managed to escape death. Eighteen had broken away, while the rest died or, worse, were captured. She had known that there were too many trolls for the elven party to shake off their trail, and thus had tried her best to evade, trying to gain time for Silver Glade. Until now.  
  
"Ready your arrows!" she cried as the howls and growls of the attacking trolls came from the forest all around them, threatening to pour up the small grassy knoll filled with fallen leaves that the elven party had chosen to prepare their last battle.  
  
All arms were straining, pointing into the darkness as the howls grew louder, and then they finally came into view. Large, swift, deadly, the trolls leaped around towards them, ever nearer, primal shouts yearning for blood. They came up, and yet the elves stood their ground, as Gaonen swept her arm up, and then down sharply.  
  
"Fire!" she shouted, and seventeen arrows sped their deadly way even as she spoke the word. They struck hard and true. A dozen trolls fell dead, and four others were clearly wounded. She no longer had to order them. She took her bow and struck as well, even as the others worked to desperately stem the tide coming towards them. Ten more trolls fell. Then six more.  
  
And then one elf was struck by a troll spear, and fell, transfixed. She gritted her teeth, kept firing. But the trolls had swept up into range, and even as a troll fell, an elf suffered the same fate. Two, then three more fell, and the remaining ones left bow and arrows fall and drew dagger and blade to face their enemy.  
  
'So this is how I will meet this 'death' the old ones talked about.' she thought, and drew her own blade.  
  
The trolls fell upon the stern elven rank like savage beasts, laughing and growling, punching, striking, rending. One elf beheaded one, then struck another, only to have his sword immobilized and be set upon by three of the beasts. Another turned to the side to dodge an attack, only to be hit by a spear on the side. He too, fell. All around, the elves were slowly breaking even as they fought.  
  
Gaonen herself faced a troll who lunged at her with a spear. She dodged it, struck it down, and then barely stepped aside from another, kicking it in the gut, striking it with a deadly blow on the head. She felt her fear be burned away by the ecstasy of the fight. Her lips drew into a grim smirk, and she crowed and whooped as she fought. All around her, other elves did the same, chasing away their fears with defiant songs, even as they numbered but seven, then six. Then five.  
  
  
  
She was then tackled by a troll, and fell down. By chance, she ended up on top, and slit its throat with her dagger in a swift motion. She never had the chance to get up, however, as one, and then two spears skewered her at the belly and her chest. She felt her life leaving her, yet held on.  
  
'At least the town is safe. The runners probably have reached it by now.' She thought, somewhat comforted. She saw, through her fading vision, trolls gathering around her, and gave them a blood-filled smile.  
  
"See you in the Great Dark." she told them thickly, her mouth barely gurgling out the words. They stared at her in incomprehension.  
  
Gaonen thought about spitting on them one last time, but died before she made her decision.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Two years later (41 AL)...  
  
The meeting between Silver Glade's council and what passed for Crystal Stream's leadership wasn't going well. In fact, it was going as badly as could be without violence. Consequently, Narra wanted to strangle someone, and cursed the fact that she had to maintain this farce. Only the knowledge of what it might do to their future stayed her as some Streamers showed more blindness and spite than a troll and crazed Night Elf druid combined could show.  
  
She knew that the Streamers were a matriarchal society. She didn't blame them for that; it was the way this band of High Elves had survived for the last four arduous decades. But their attitude towards the males of the Silver Glade council quickly went from mildly annoying to simply ludicrous. They couldn't seem to grasp the fact that these very males had been very useful - sometimes crucial - in maintaining the very stability, which was slipping through these females' fingers.  
  
"You have to understand that your people can no longer take the many setbacks you have suffered." Levak told them, even his soft tones denoting a hint of impatience.  
  
Their leader, an elf priestess of supreme arrogance, met Narra's lovers eyes with barely-concealed disdain. "Some smattering of male complaint won't destroy our society. We have Crystal Stream well under control."  
  
"No, I'm afraid you do not. The people went with your ideas to survive. Now that survival has become possible, it's only natural that the male part of your population is growing restless, as well as, might I had, a large part of the females. Add to that that your town did not manage very well against the troll attacks two autumns ago..."  
  
"That was hardly our fault. We were simply unprepared." one Streamer huffed.  
  
"Precisely. You never ordered a defence prepared, while we, Baivan and Remarra did so. You are basing yourselves on the strength of Elune alone, and that cannot be good." he replied.  
  
"What would a male like you know of what is right or wrong for the people?" came the scathing reply. The males bristled, their calm cracking. But nothing could top Narra's own ire, which finally reached a breaking point.  
  
"You are standing in the middle of the Council Grove of Silver Glade." she noted coldly, taking in the ancient trees surrounding them. "And these males ARE members of this town's council. You will treat them with the respect they deserve, or I swear I will have you arrested by our militia."  
  
The Streamers went quickly livid with indignation. "You dare treat us like this? The leaders of a fellow settlement?" their arrogant leader asked. Narra figured it was time to show some arrogance of her own.  
  
"Of course I dare!" she snapped, " I dare because your settlement is close to breaking up into a true uprising! Your males hate you; you females are tired of you! Your orders are based upon a twisted version of Elune's precepts. What else? Dare I mention the death of hundreds in the last major troll offensive." inwardly she shivered at that. Silver Glade had beaten the trolls off because of Brecella Cutfreeze's party's sacrifice more than skill. She wasn't about to mention that, but instead plunged ahead. "Your religion and your leadership have all but lost power!"  
  
The Streamers stood up almost as one. "I will not stay a moment more. We will-" the Streamer leader began darkly. Narra, ignoring the looks from the other members, cut her off.  
  
"You will sit down. That, and only that. Because you see, the people of Silver Glade will be moving to a safer haven in years soon to come. I intend to bring your people with us to found a new, stronger haven." she swept an arm with authority to cut off any protest. "And I swear by Elune and my dedication to the High Elves that your people WILL come with us. Either you tell them to, or I ask them to. The result will be the same at any rate."  
  
"The people will not follow you."  
  
"Won't they? Think about it. We know how to grow adequate crops, we have a well-organized militia, and most of all, and our orders are carefully prepared and make sense. Do you want me to show you exactly what will happen if I go see them? Don't you think you should consider what might happen to you if I do?" she stated, straight as an arrow, arms crossed.  
  
The sullen streamers did not answer. Narra nodded, her point was made. She turned to the leader of Silver Glade's militia.  
  
"Please escort these people out of this town. This meeting is concluded."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Five years later (46 AL)...  
  
Dehire took the scenery around him. A small valley, surrounded by small but swift rivers, surrounded by thick forests but in itself, possessing only a few dozen trees at most. As he had flown, examining the area, he had spotted a good place for a quarry, and plenty of game. He had also seen that many of the wild herbs the defecting Baivans had taught Silver Glade to grow.  
  
Most of all, however, he had spotted the small well of water, which, nature had allowed him to feel, was connected to a large part of the territory. That, more than anything, else, had convinced him.   
  
He looked at the small pool at his feet, nodding. "Yes. This place. None other. This is perfect."  
  
"For building our new home, or to try this rather ambitious project you have?" a voice he didn't like yet asked him, and he looked over at Medarin, the Highborne being surrounded by the two of the most powerful lesser sorcerers whom had defected from Remarra with him, as the two strongest remaining druids stood besides him. He knew now that, despite his arrogance, the sorcerer actually meant well. But it didn't change the fact that he didn't quite trust the elf.  
  
For this however, his emotions were irrelevant. It was too important, too crucial. He thus only sighed in exasperation. "Both, sorcerer. Here, we can truly begin anew. In more ways than we can imagine, I suppose." he then opened a small bag he had kept with him for nearly half a century now.  
  
A gasp came from all involved - even Medarin, he found with a sort of grim triumph - as he took out the two special vials. Both glowed with a different power - the water from the Well of Eternity glowed white, the seeds from the Tree of Life a sort of golden colour. Both represented the hope of the High Elves. He saw the sorcerers' eyes glow with contained craving, and again he had doubts. Was he right in doing this? And yet, was there any other way?  
  
No, he realized. There wasn't. The people were becoming despondent, agitated, and for many, hopeless as their should seemed increasingly empty. He had to do this. Elune forgive him.  
  
He clutched the vials and motioned to the two druids. "Go to the far side with me. Medarin, you stay here. Remember: focus will be paramount. If we fail, the void might one day destroy us."  
  
Despite the hungry look of his eyes, the sorcerer's nod was firm. "We will not fail." he said simply. Dehire wondered if he too was praying to Elune. Perhaps.  
  
They took their positions around the pool, and then Dehire, not wishing to think about it any longer, forcing all of his doubts away, uncorked the vial and emptied them into the small well of water. Immediately, it started to bubble and froth as the powers of the seeds and those of the Well water fought within. Immediately he forced his power into it, and nearly lost his mind when he felt the sheer power inside the well.   
  
At once, one of the sorcerers toppled over, unable to deal with the power, spirit spent. Medarin's face was like stone, and he felt the sorcerer's strength, trying to control the change as he did, trying to mix the powers. Both energies struggled for supremacy, and it seemed that for a moment, he could see the powers behind both - the powers of the Titans, and of the Dragons.   
  
Still, he held on, even as one of his people fell down, out cold. The powers, forced together, began to merge.  
  
A deflagration of power actually swept past him, and he felt the sickening touch of magic all over himself, mingled with the powers of nature. They penetrated his mind, hissed, and then went still, as one power began to emerge from the two. He heard the others falling one by one, and yet he held, until he felt the struggle was almost won. Just a little bit more. Just a little bit...  
  
And then there was a last, terrific surge. He nearly blacked out, falling. And bas he fell down, he felt the power of the well, now one, potent, already healing a bit of the searing void inside of him. He spotted Medarin, holding his head, and forced himself to talk to the male with all the strength he had left.  
  
"W-w-well....M-Medarin....what d-do you think of-of the..." he hesitated, and then a thought crossed him as he spotted the soft, golden colour of the water. "W-hat do you t-think of the...t-the Sunwell?"  
  
And with that, Dehire blacked out, surrendering to the bliss of unconsciousness.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Four years later (50 AL)...  
  
Elated. That's how he felt. There was no other word to describe the feeling. Evorin found it strange, in a way. After all, here he was surrounded by a sea of elves, in the midst of what was, for now, but a great agglomeration of crude tents and campfires. Yet he felt better than he'd felt in a very long time, better than he had felt since he had come to the now- destroyed and cannibalized Silver Glade.  
  
Part of it was, he was now old enough to know, due to the Sunwell itself. Created not so long ago by Dehire the Druid and Medarin the Sorcerer, its creation had killed three of the six involved and had rendered the fourth catatonic. Only Dehire and Medarin themselves had survived, and they were marked. They were gaunter then ever before, and their hair had gone completely white. Still, they had created the Sunwell. And for that alone, they were celebrated as saviours as the Sunwell slowly seemed to cure the emptiness they'd all felt for so long.  
  
Another reason was Narra. She was standing near the Sunwell, with her mate Levak by her side, with Medarin, Dehire, and all of the most important people from the new, forming council. Around her, the people of Silver Glade mingled with those from Crystal Stream, with defectors from Baivans, and even the few who came with Medarin. As she talked, she looked proud, strong, confident. Supreme.  
  
Beside him, Weil looked at her leader attentively. She had grown into a full, beautiful female recently, and had chosen to become part of the new militia. She saw him looking at her, winked, and he flushed, turning his eyes away. Things were somehow getting complicated with Weil these days.  
  
Standing surrounded by the people who had quickly come to revere her leadership, Narra was talking with her usual strength. "This settlement will be the beginning. So far we have lived in huts, foraging for survival, fighting trolls off, resisting the pull of Remarra's reckless bids for power. Here, it will be different. Here, we will build walls of wood, then of stone. We will create streets, shops to learn half-forgotten trades."  
  
"Here there will be towers and buildings, of wood, of stone, to symbolize that we are here. That the High Elves have made their homes and will remain. Let today be the beginning. With these words, and with the hope in my heart, I declare the birth of the city of Silvermoon!" Her last words were drowned in the roaring cheers of thousands of elves, male and female, all swept away by her charisma. Evorin and Weil joined it quickly.  
  
And then, something happened. As the clamour died down, Medarin came forth, his smile tired but jubilant. People who would have looked at him in distrust just five summers ago looked at him with respect in the twilight of this one. He stood and looked at them all, and spoke in the relative silence.  
  
"High Elves, this is a great day! But not only because of the foundation of what will be, I am certain, a city of great splendour. This is a great day, because today we will see the finalization of something we all know to be in our hearts." And from his garments, he drew a crown of superbly crafted wood, glowing with a soft golden hue. With it, he approached a flabbergasted Narra, who began shaking her head, then stopped as Levak said something in her ear. Finally, Medarin gave the crown to Dehire.  
  
"Kneel, my friend." he said, and after a long hesitation, after having looked around at the people, she did. "Today we give you in title what you already had: rulership of our destiny. The years will be hard ahead still. And I see no one better suited to lead us through them. This is a heavy burden, yet I am glad someone such as you bear it. Rise this time my friend, and never kneel to anyone again."  
  
And as she rose, unsteady, Levak, whose voice was actually so soft and cultured, shouted. "High Elves! This is Narra Pureglade. First of the High Elves, Ruling Lady of Silvermoon." he seemed to hesitate, then smiled. "The Queen of Quel'Thalas!"  
  
And this time, Evorin realized as he roared along the others, he truly felt that here, ever since he had lost his parents, that he was back. He had come home at last.  
  
The cheers and the celebrations continued far in the night, in the large cluster of tents which was now Silvermoon. 


	4. Narra Chapter Three 61 AL to 86 AL

Quel'Thalas, Realm in Exile  
  
Part One: Narra  
  
Chapter Three  
  
Sixty-One Years After Landing (61 AL)  
  
"Are we really doing this?" Levak asked Narra "SHOULD we be doing this?" And the Queen of Quel'Thalas didn't quite know how she could answer.  
  
Before her was nothing less than a training ground. On one side, elves were exercising with bows, honing their skills with crafted targets sent far afield. On the other, others were dressed in crude leather armour and waved crude iron swords and wooden shields, dancing against one another, trying to hone strength. It was, as rag-tag as it still looked, the beginning of more than a simple militia.  
  
Silvermoon was crafting its own army.  
  
"We don't really have a choice, Levak my love." she said at length "You know as well as I that the Highborn won't let Silvermoon's rise to power go on unimpeded. We need means to defend ourselves against any of their plots."  
  
"Still, must we-  
  
"And there is the fact that the forest trolls are and will perhaps always remain a menace. If Quel'Thalas is to one day become more than a single city, we will need means to defend ourselves."  
  
"I know all this, Narra. And I agree with most of it. But you are thinking about raiding Remarra, and forcing the Highborn into a battle. Elves slaying elves...that is a mockery of what our race has always stood for!" His face immediately showed regret, but it was too late to take back his words, as hurtful as they were.  
  
She scowled at him. She knew that the six decades of struggle strained him as well as she, and that he didn't mean the words he had just uttered. But she was tired, having had to meet with scouting members, and then with the druids in their Memoria Grove nearby. All the little things she had to do, added to holding court - such as it was - within Silvermoon itself. Her nerves were frayed, and she snapped.  
  
"I have to do what must be done!" she growled, "I want to preserve our people, and for that I need strength. That is the way I know how to do it, Levak, that is the way I am. A warrior raising an army. I did NOT wish to become the leader, I never wanted to be queen, but I have accepted it and I intend to honour the pledge I made to the people of Silvermoon!" And with this, she waved an arm in one sharp, yet graceful, sweep and indicated the city nearby, rising in the midst of the surrounding forests.  
  
Only ten springs had come and gone since the disparate people from Silver Glade, Baivan, Crystal Stream, joined by a few Remarrans, had founded the city. Huts at first, crude houses were now built. These houses surrounded the only building made with some stone, the Queen's Mansion, and the Sunwell, which gave the people there the strength to carry on. Around these homes, a wooden wall, sturdier than any the High Elves had yet constructed, surrounded the small city, broken only by one gate to the east, and one to the northwest.  
  
Around, clustered around the city walls, were farms, such as Baivans called them. These provided the grain, which gave food to the people. All in all, the city, young as it was, was starting to show more strength and prosperity than any other. That, however, meant that the Highborn would strike soon.  
  
Levak sighed sadly "I did not...want to mean what you were doing was wrong. I just...I just dislike the very idea so much..."  
  
"As do I. But I will do it. I can live with my conscience, if it can save my people..." she replied.  
  
There was a moment of silence, as each looked at the training elves farther on. She hated these moments when she and Levak couldn't agree with each other. She loved him, and he her, but his thinking as a philosopher often clashed with her own thoughts as a former Huntress. She cast about for something to say, and finally found something on which they could agree.   
  
"I have agreed to let Derrigal Morningbrand, and his people, to do what they wished with Silvermoon." she mused, eyebrows rising. "He intends to quarry large amounts of stone and rebuilt it all from the ground up."  
  
"He was a great architect long ago. He constructed cities before the War of the Ancients. I am certain he will make Silvermoon a place to remember."  
  
"We are returning to the ways of before, when Elune did not hold much of a place for us, and when we built bastions of stone instead of living with nature." she remarked with a shake of her head. Beside her, she could feel Levak shrug.  
  
"I don't think we will...be able to return to that lifestyle. Not after that catastrophe. But it is impossible to become Night Elves anew. We are sundered from these. Our beliefs in Elune is being challenged, our hearts are wounded. We will be a new civilization. Not Kal'Dorei, not Quel'Dorei, only High Elves."  
  
She nodded. Although she still believed in Elune, she knew many others did not, and that Levak was amongst them. He was, she knew, trying to find a way to return faith to their people, and although she wasn't certain it would bear fruit, she wished him luck in doing so.  
  
She then looked at the people she had accepted rulership of. Already people were starting to use titles such as 'Your Highness' and 'Your Majesty'. Could she truly lead them into a war with other elves?  
  
And, after, could she rule them in peace as well as war?  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
One Year Later (62 AL)...  
  
How marvellous it was, to be able to embrace magic again!  
  
It had been twelve summers since the Sunwell had been crafted, and still Medarin found himself unable to stop thinking that sentence. After all, he has felt this deprivation more keenly then most, as he had been one of the few who had never completely stopped embracing magic. He hadn't shown it, not wanting to show weakness to either ally or foe, but he'd truly been to the brink.  
  
And then, the Sunwell. It had cost the lives of his two most talented apprentices, elves he had seen more like sons than anything else. The price paid, excluding his white hair, was one that grieved him. But the results. His shattered magic had resurfaced, just as the void in his soul began to close. It was almost healed now, only a faint throbbing he could ignore.  
  
The creation of the Sunwell had been a boon for Dehire, since it had drawn people towards druidism. But it had been an even better outcome for arcane magic. Not only did the people of Silvermoon actively distrust it as they did once, some actually came to him with interest in learning a way to channel the powers safely. Already, two of his apprentices could be counted as mages themselves, and they were now actively teaching to nearly a dozen gifted elves.   
  
Magic had its place, and could one day become honoured, in Silvermoon. He had no intention of letting that be destroyed. For that reason, he had been very strict in choosing who would learn magic. He had taken only the most balanced and patient of elves, and would make it a point for whatever form the future magical schools he saw were, that they would be strict.  
  
Still, for all of the Sunwell's healing, for all the fact that class and blood no longer imported to him as much as an ability to control urges, he knew his kin still outclassed the budding magical society in Silvermoon. Remarra had six other spellcasters who equalled Medarin, and at least forty others of lesser strength. Even if it hadn't grown, it would be years before Silvermoon's magic could be a match for Remarra's.  
  
Still, that didn't mean he wasn't about to be prepared. He had thus spoken with Derrigal Morningbrand, and the architect, who had designed and had built more than one place meant for spellcasters, had agreed to help him build a small mansion where he could teach unimpeded. He would have to rush training and education with whatever he remembered, and that meant he would have to be extremely strict from now on.  
  
"And you, my old friends?" he wondered out loud. "Are you also readying? Are you pushing your students?"  
  
He doubted it. All of those who knew magic in Remarra were Highborn, and were treated as sort of elite. They wouldn't be rushed. There, he thought, lay the advantage his own people had.  
  
If they could hold Remarra off long enough. And with Narra, Levak and - he had to give credit where credit was due - Dehire, it might be done. Silvermoon was already a far more unified city than any settlement built by the High Elven people since the Landing. It would hold on.  
  
For the future of the Exiles and their children, it HAD to.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Three years later (65 AL)...  
  
There were lots of objections to her plans from the assembled inner cadre that she kept with her. Dehire found that it would hurt the people. Derrigal found that the loss of manpower and resources could affect the work he was doing. Medarin thought that it might provoke the Highborn into hitting too fast for their still-fresh army to react. Levak, for his part, wondered if that might no impoverish the people.   
  
Each had good points, of course. They had arguments that she couldn't really refute, and she didn't expect that she could or should be able to. These four elves were all brilliant, each in their own way, and had been the very best advisors she could have dreamed of having. But she wouldn't budge on this, no matter what the arguments were.  
  
"It is necessary, my friends." she said at length, keeping her tone confident yet dignified. "We need to spread our influence, and this is the best way. I am, however, only talking about three outposts, or colonies, each with two hundred and fifty elves."  
  
"Narra, the Sunwell's powers only reach two leagues out of Silvermoon. Barely. And we are talking about setting up colonies that will be ten, elven, or twelve leagues away." Dehire exclaimed, his white-haired, wise face concerned "They might not be able to take the strain of it long enough for it to reach them."  
  
"I am well aware of this. We will take only volunteers, and I am certain that we will find enough for our goals." She replied easily.  
  
"What about trolls. Thus far, they have left us pretty much alone - one two raids ever since Silvermoon was founded." Derrigal said. "But that is because the city is very large, and that we are building a very large infrastructure here. The smaller outposts might not be able to handle repeated troll raids."  
  
The queen knew what to answer to that. "As you said, they have been silent for the most part. And the colonies will not be without defences. Each will have a fifty-elf armed group serving as a militia. That should be enough to stop any attack short of a full invasion, and there are no signs of that from our scouts' reports."  
  
"That might change."  
  
"My friends, we have no choice. We have to colonize this land. We must look to the future. I intend to crush the Remarrans as soon as possible, but what then?" she took a deep breath "Our time here has made survival our first priority, and as such made us understandably short-sighted. Now we have to look down the decades and centuries again. We must rebuild our civilization so that our children will have something to live in that will not demand them danger and toil every second of their lives."  
  
She had them with this, and she knew it. As much as they could talk of shortages, or lack of manpower, of dangers in leaving the security of Silvermoon, they were well aware that the only way the High Elves would survive would be by expanding beyond one sole locale. They had to put up a web of civilization into motion, and then spin it until it spun by itself. She intended to do that, and she intended to have them help her. They knew this, and were starting to accept it.  
  
"What about Remarra?" Medarin asked. "I know that my brethren are close to striking out. I can feel it somehow." Dehire actually snorted, but less acerbically than he would have before the Sunwell was created. "They won't just let us do whatever we want, especially when they detect our expansion. They'll strike out at the colonies first, to frighten and demoralize us."  
  
"I know they would do this." and it frightened her. Not battle, she was used to it. Not war, she was ready for it. No, what frightened her was killing other elves, a taboo the Druids of Ashenvale had written, and all gathered here found sensible. Yet they had no choice, for submitting to Remarra might have horrible repercussions for their collective race's future.  
  
"I know they would do this, and that is why I won't let them." she said. "Our information tells us that their forces will be ready in six summers at most. I shall attack in four." she stopped all protests with a look. "I do not intend to have them come within striking distance. Silvermoon will take the offensive."  
  
"With their edge in magical powers?" Medarin challenged "There are only four of us who can call ourselves full mages today. They have much more, and although their strength and powers are sapped, they still represent a significant danger!"  
  
"Yet I will win. I can promise you that." she said coldly.  
  
They all fell silent, looking at one another. They clearly had more to say, but didn't seem to know just how to say it to her. It was Levak, who had said little since his sole protest, who finally broke the silence.  
  
"I think we have heard enough. Narra, is your decision final?" he asked her.  
  
"It is."  
  
He looked towards the other members of the Silvermoon council with a slight grin. "There we have it, sir elves. The Queen of Quel'Thalas has decided, and that is quite simply that. Now we have to make it happen. To work, my brethren!"  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Two years later (67 AL)...  
  
The meeting between the six remaining highest of the Highborn was tinted with urgency, as it had been for many times. The news they had managed to receive, after all, weren't doing anything to help their mood.  
  
"Is this information truly reliable?" the head of the small reunion asked. "Silvermoon has often tried to lead us astray.  
  
"We believe it is reliable, given that we stumbled upon two such settlements already." one other said. There was a hint of challenge in his voice. There was challenge in everyone's voice these days. The effect of magical absence, of deprivation, was affecting them even worse then their people and those who served their people.  
  
The elf who oversaw this meeting, however, had been one of the few of Dath Remar's close friends, one who had known of his plans for a stable, magical kingdom. That the people of Silvermoon - those who named the patch of land they owned Quel'Thalas - had taken the beat of advancement from glorious Remarra irked him as much as it did the others. But he kept his head cool despite the great ache in his soul.  
  
"So." he said calmly. "Narra Pureglade ordered new settlements to be built. We never managed to hear of this..."  
  
"Their scouts have been hard to catch, and our spies seem to be able to grasp little information."  
  
"It has been even worse since Medarin betrayed us!" one said ragefully, indignantly. "He's told the commoners all of our secrets. He even TEACHES them magic now, from what little I've heard!!"  
  
All of them shivered. In rage, because of Medarin's despicable betrayal and flight to Silvermoon's founders. And in disgust at the thought of commoners actually learning magic! Unheard of since the days of Azshara! Yet, Medarin had shown himself capable of defiling anything, so why not the way magic was to be taught?  
  
The head elf immediately recovered his composure, however. "As unpleasant as these developments are, we still have some advantages left. How large are those new settlements?"  
  
"Very small. A few houses with some small fields, surrounded by a wooden palisade."  
  
"Excellent. We will concentrate our spies there, where they won't be able to keep the information so tightly. On another note, has the secondary project we prepared in place now?"  
  
"Fully, sir." said one of the seated elves with a satisfied grin. "They await but our signal and the right opportunity. What is more, there is no evidence that they have been discovered, even by Medarin."  
  
"Then we of the Quel'Dorei have not lost just yet! We will do all we can to stop the infamy that is Narra Pureglade's little realm. After all, we are the Highborn, and we are meant to lead the High Elves! To the Future!"  
  
"To the Future!" the others replied. The Highborn, suddenly, felt more hope than they had felt in many years. Their dream was still possible. The New Kalimdoran Empire would rise yet!  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Four years later (71 AL)  
  
'Seventy years...' Dehire reflected as the people of Silvermoon prepared themselves for the Remarran offensive. 'And in those years we have rediscovered the aspects of war and survival. Is this new world truly worth all of the blood we gave for it?' He sighed, for he didn't have the answer to that kind of question. He knew however, that those with power and those with willpower wanted a world, which wouldn't be controlled by the Highborn. He was one of them, and thus his place was here, in this forested valley.  
  
On this first battlefield, in this first war since over four millennia.  
  
An elf, lithe, muscular, and possessing the beauty that only very young females could show, ran to him. "Lord Dehire." she said respectfully "The enemy is coming through the pass, and will be at the river before too long. Her Majesty asks that you and your brethren prepare yourselves to attack."  
  
"Tell the queen that I understand and will be prepared." He said heavily, trying to hide his reluctance. She was too preoccupied to take heed of his tone, however, and simply nodded and sped away as deftly as she had come. He then looked at the young druids he had managed to form in the ways of nature.  
  
All five of them - three females and two males - looked even less happy about what was happening than he did. It wasn't surprising for, like they, he felt the groan of nature when life was spilled in such conflict. It rebuked them to have to take sides at all. At the same time, however, all respected Narra Pureglade and Dehire himself, and if their Queen and their teacher went to fight, they would as well. Dehire sensed all of this, mingled with irritation and apprehension, and smiled inwardly.  
  
"It seems our powers will be needed soon. Get ready." he said simply. It seemed to agitate them more.  
  
"Teacher, if I may-" his strongest former student, the one who had survived the creation of the Sunwell - which had turned most of her hair white - began to talk but the old druid stopped her with a gesture.  
  
"I am no longer your teacher. You have learned enough to stand on your own. So please, call me Dehire." he actually grinned at his brightest former student's discomfort, but simply waited as the elven female fought with herself.  
  
"Ummm...D-Dehire...are our powers truly necessary for this battle."  
  
"You know they are. We must be here."  
  
The elf hesitated, and the others squirmed. "I...the Silvermoon force is larger than the Remarran force, and they have better weapons. Certainly they would be able to withstand the magical might arrayed against them and prevail."  
  
Dehire felt a surge of anger and contained himself, but his voice was taut as he replied. So taut, in fact, that they all jumped when they heard it. His eyes flashed as he spoke. "Perhaps, perhaps. And perhaps not. But whether or not they can, we will help them with our powers, because we all pledged to so. A pledge to Narra Pureglade is something I will NOT break, no matter the circumstances, even if I have to fight alone. Is that clear?"  
  
They looked both annoyed and shamed, and he was about to add something when the horns sounded. He saw, farther on, the main force of Silvermoon preparing, sword wielders first, with archers flanking them. And, just before them, a force of perhaps forty, all seated on beast they had found and tamed after Baivan counsels. All of them wore armour, the armour of huntresses. And amongst them, one had a golden helmet. That elf raised her hand, and ragged banners flew, giving signals.  
  
He looked back at the younger druids. "I have no time to argue this point. Know this, however: Silvermoon is a place worth fighting for, and I will fight for it. You only have your own trust in the spirits and yourselves to decided whether or not to fight."  
  
With this, he closed his eyes and felt for the power of nature, of Elune, of everything living.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *   
  
Three hours later (71 AL)...  
  
Blood and moisture hung to Narra's spear as she killed yet one more enemy soldier, decapitating yet one more elf. It had begun to get easier, she decided, after her fourth, and as she was now at her seventeenth or eighteenth, she hardly though about her act, preferring to do her soul searching when she had ensured victory for her people..  
  
The five hundred Remarran soldiers had crossed the river, only to find it enchanted against them. The river rose to take some, while vines had entangled others, rendering them immobile. Lightning had crackled in response, killing some of her own people, and as an answer - she was certain that had been Dehire, who else had the power for such feats? That some trees had lashed out, and attacked the enemy as they passed, forcing the Remarran sorcerers to concentrate on another problem entirely.  
  
Medarin and the few he counted as strong enough to fight had countered the enemy magic as much as they could, only partly succeeding. All this, however, had made possible what she wanted: to get close to the enemy, to fight them head-on. Without magic, without cover, where only weaponry, training, and will counted. It had been a gamble, the biggest in her life.  
  
Fortunately, however, it had seemingly succeeded as six hundred Thalassians had met five hundred Remarrans. The numbers were only slightly in her favour, but the effect of the Sunwell, here, could be seen clearly.  
  
Although reluctant to kill, her people fought faster, with more vigour and strength in their postures and actions. For every Silvermoon who fell, whether it was by magic or other wise, at least two Remarran also met their doom. It wasn't something she was proud of. She would never wish to remember that battle, or any which would follow against elves. But it had to be done.  
  
Her group, she knew, had done much damage. Mounted on these strange beasts the Baivans had collected decades ago and introduced to them recently, they were able to move with a speed nearly that of Frostsabers. She had chosen all the former huntresses who remained, and they proved to be as excellent in the new lands as they had been in the jungles of Kalimdor. Time and time again they had rushed, deflected arrows with shields, and struck, dealing death and terror. Six had fallen, but between them all, they had killed or wounded nearly a fourth of the enemy already.  
  
One of the few Remarran mages left - she had made certain her archers pick them off as much as they could - came towards her, his face deformed by rage and fear. He shouted words of arcane, and fired a bolt of electricity to one of the huntresses. The female didn't have time to dodge, and with a scream and the taste of burnt flesh, both her steed and she fell to the ground. Blocking anger, Narra veered her animal towards the magi and charged, He saw her coming, his eyes wide, and he began to fumble the words of a spell.  
  
"Never again, Highborn!" she growled and launched her spear. Her aim was as true as it ever had been when she fought centaurs. The bloody spear transfixed the elf, and he toppled to the ground, dead taking him quickly. Two other Remarrans came towards her, but as she unsheathed her rough iron blade to face them, the other huntresses joined her and charged them. They died within moments. She lifted her blade and said the only meaningful thing she could.  
  
"FOR QUEL'THALAS!" she roared, and went back into the fray.  
  
Such was the fight inside of her that she blinked several times when she saw that the Remarrans were retreating. Less than two hundred, many of these wounded, they fled under the jeers of over four hundred people of Silvermoon. She indeed saw some of her own people about to chase after them all, and wondered in disgust of what they had become.  
  
'We took elven lives and found a way to enjoy it. Elune be merciful.' "Do not pursue them! Horns! Sound the horns to signal the end of the battle!!"  
  
As they sounded, and the High Elves of Silvermoon broke from their pursue - many reluctantly, she heard one of the huntresses exclaim to another. "We crushed them! A magnificent victory, don't you think so?"  
  
She looked towards the battlefield, and noticed the many wounded, and the many who would never move again. Such a loss of life, to make certain that there be a future. Was this truly the victory they hoped for? All of this death and hate...just to make certain one side won...  
  
"For Quel'Thalas." she muttered. But this time, it held bitterness, not triumph.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
One year later (72 AL)...  
  
Kelak loved when the darkening evening came. Not because he liked the darkness itself that very much, but rather because it allowed him to breathe. Silvermoon, after all, was a very lively little city by day, with small, budding shops and markets beginning to grow, while hundreds of workers were seen, actively following the ambitious plans laid by Derrigal Morningbrand. The architect himself had come to see him with a plan he'd done of the castle he wanted built for the Quel'Thalas royalty. He'd shown them with a face so close to ecstatic dementia that Kelak had given him permission simply so that the elf could be away from him.  
  
He wasn't interested in how Morningbrand was busily tearing down buildings only to rebuild them. Nor was he concerned about the raid on Silvermoon last month - seventy suicidal trolls who'd been neutralized soon enough, although it had raised concern more were to come. Nor even was he worried about the state of the war with Remarra. At this moment, Kelak was concentrating on only one thing: channelling spiritual magic without calling upon the power of Elune.  
  
In Ashenvale, and especially in the confines of Nighthaven, it would have been seen as heresy. But here, Elune had lost much of her influence, and people had been rather tempted by his theory: that the divine energies the druids could use were only taken from something within each person. It wasn't something most could use, of course. A minority could only reach that power, and even fewer could do great things with this strength. But he refused to believe it was related to Cenarius, or Elune, or any godlike apparition.  
  
He had indeed interested many people with his theories. The problem was that he couldn't provide the proof for what he said yet. That was why he was sitting in the middle of a small, bare room in the mansion he and Narra lived in, and tried to produce a small light between his cupped hands.  
  
Very young, he had been told that he had some slight potential for learning in druidic magic. He had, however, refused to follow that path, preferring research and thought into Night Elf society, its qualities and shortcomings. It was only later in his life that he had studied magic to better understand its inner workings. His thoughts on the matter - and his opinion that the arcane powers could be channelled safely - had led to his Exile, to Narra following him, and to his child's death, for which he would never completely forgive himself.  
  
The coming here, and his uselessness in so many things, had only fuelled his need to make his theory work, to invent a new philosophy which new elves could take to heart. He was, so far, unable to even make a small light flicker, no matter the concentration he put into it.  
  
"Maybe I am going about all this the wrong way," he mused in frustration, letting his hands fall to his side. "Perhaps...perhaps concentration is not the key."  
  
He couldn't ask anyone about it. It would only shock the druids, and no one else he knew practiced this esoteric experiment. Yet, he wouldn't give up. The Sunwell had given him his strength back, and he had time to find out what he wanted. Seventy summers were nothing, when he could try for seven hundred more. Still, he wished to find the way he saw as soon as possible.  
  
He chuckled wanly, fatigue seeping into his bones. "Well, it won't be today. But perhaps tomorrow. Or the day after. No need to rush quite THAT much." With that, he rose to his feet and stretched. A long day. Now, to bed he would go, for it would be another long day, with decisions and hurdles, tomorrow as it always was ever since Narra had been chosen Queen - and he, by consequence, had become the royal consort.  
  
He left the room, and walked through the stone hall leading to the Queen's - and his own - bedchamber. He irritably yet politely replied to those who acknowledged with a respectful 'Sire' - since when had he become so untouched?!? - and finally he reached the doors, guarded by two armed elven males who immediately opened the doors for him with ridiculous bows and titles.  
  
"I swear," he grumbled to himself "If this keeps up, I won't be able to talk to people within four centuries. No, THREE! I can't stand all this bowing and - " he stopped when he saw that, in the midst of the rather spartan room, in the large, rather well-made bed, his mate was soundly asleep.  
  
She looked angelic when she was asleep, when the hardness of the war and the guilt many of the decisions she had thrust upon herself slipped away, and he was once more shown why exactly this precise woman had dazzled him even before he had even known her name. She obviously had a very hard day too, or else her heightened senses would have woken her up at his grumbling entrance.  
  
Thoughts of frustration about his fruitless attempts and his annoyance at being called things he would probably never feel he were replaced with a though he hadn't had in many years. He grinned, slipped out of his clothes and into the sheets. Feeling every bit like a young eighty year old, he reached to touch his mate gently-  
  
- And found himself nearly attacked as Narra suddenly slid on top of him, kissing him long, holding his head with one hand, the other clawing his back. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, although he felt a bit like someone was choking him. It took many long moments before she released him, however, and he caught twice when she did.  
  
"Why you..." he coughed again, strangled between lack of air and laughter "You weren't asleep at all."  
  
"I was." she told him with a grin as wan as his "But nobody's ever been able to surprise me in a very long time. I was tempted to let you do what you wanted, but I wanted to see your look when I'd surprise you."  
  
"Well, you did." he said. He then saw her face tense a bit, taking once again the expression of the distraught warleader and ruler. He had been one of those who convinced her to take that mantle, a mantle, which had led to claim a great victory one year before, a battle which had claimed too many lives. He suddenly found his little search to be small compared to the burden she was forced to endure. "But I suppose it doesn't prevent anything!" he said, switching places, savouring the shocked expression on her face.  
  
"Levak..." she began, but he cut her off swiftly.  
  
"Words tomorrow. Right now, let me show you a few things meditating all day can teach a person." He said gently, bending over her slender but more powerful frame.  
  
And indeed, they didn't talk until the morning.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Five years later (77 AL)...  
  
The elf ran through the forest in a panic, not caring whether he let his trace everywhere he went. He knew that his trail was easy to follow, that even a blind elf could do so. But it didn't matter. THEY were after him. And if THEY were after him, it meant that trying to be subtle meant void. Nothing at all. The pain his soul, they felt as well, and this pain had only made them more unstable, more cruel.  
  
He couldn't let them catch him. Never! He couldn't! He would rather perish right now than be in their grasp. Yet he couldn't find it within himself to kill himself, so he chose the best course left to him: he ran like one maddened.  
  
His breath was short. Fire in his chest, his limbs trembled; yet he ran. He had to reach some place safe, where they couldn't reach him. One of those other settlements. Baivan, or that one people said was greater than even haughty Remarra: Silvermoon. But his strength chose this moment to give out, and stumbling, he fell down with a cry. Fumbling, he desperately tried to get up, when a shadow covered him. In horror, he looked up.  
  
And saw a cloaked form looming over him, holding a large, curved iron blade. He whined in pure terror, actually urinating at the sight. "No...nonono..." he kept repeating, like a mantra. It didn't have any effect on the looming thing he knew as an Enclave Warden.  
  
The Warden spoke, and an elven voice, female and beautiful, but frighteningly devoid of emotion, spoke. "You left the Enclave and its grounds, breaking the Vows of Time. You have been judged and sentenced the moment you left. Now comes the time of your sentence."  
  
"NO! NOLETMEGO!" But at that moment the curved blade went from grey to red, and he knew the end had come.  
  
"Prepare yourself to be cleansed, Tainted One!" The warden said in a fervent voice, and struck him with her blade.  
  
And then the pain overtook him, and he, like all the others, realized there was only one truth that one could be absolutely certain of: No one left the Enclave.  
  
Ever.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Three years later (80 AL)...  
  
The city was shaping itself. Of that there was no doubt left. Where there had been only a large cluster of tents and a cauldron of hope amongst peoples of differing philosophies, now there was something worthwhile to be seen. Silvermoon, only a name, was becoming a power quickly.  
  
One could see it by the changes wrought in the city itself. Tents had given way to huts, and these had been replaced by true homes of wood. Although crude, they were reaching an ever-higher level of sophistication. Markets and shops were beginning to appear, selling food or goods produced by farmers and artisans. Rough trails had become mud roads, but already the work of thousands of people had seen changes there as well: the main avenues were now cobbled.  
  
The greatest changes were the increasing use of stone. It seemed that the leaders of Silvermoon had agreed that wood was a precious living thing, and that stone could furthermore prove most excellent in repelling attacks. For that reason, work had begun on a stone wall outside of the wooden palisade. Unfinished, it would take ten years to finish it, as well as the gates which would guard the city. But it was beginning, and that couldn't be anything but good.  
  
Houses - belonging to prominent leaders and families - were also made in great part of stone, while the Queen's Palace - a structure situated just north of the Sunwell, truly showed what the architect Derrigal Morningbrand could do. Slender, with beautiful spires and turrets, it was as great as the castles of mighty rulers in the height of Kalimdor's glory, in the days of old Evorin's father talked about.  
  
To the young elf, who was no longer a child and yet not quite a male, the greatest change wasn't in the beauty being built physically, but by the one he saw amongst the people themselves. For the first time since they had come to this new land, the disparate philosophies brushed shoulders. Gladers and Streamers, Baivans and even rogue Remarrans all worked together. Of course, there were some differences yet. The streamers were still heavily matriarchal; the gladers militaristic, the remarrans had the haughtiness of Highborns, and the Baivans were only interested in farming.  
  
Still, the unity endured. To Evorin, it meant very much indeed.  
  
"Daydreaming is all good, and I approve of imaginative minds, but I would really need that ink soon, if you don't mind."  
  
The soft, melodious voice soon found a body as his master, Derrigal Morningbrand, stepped beside him, making him jump all the more. Once handsome, half of Derrigal's face had been burned by a group of druids to 'cleanse' him of the sins of designing many of the Kalimdoran Empire's most glorious buildings. It was said that he lost his family that night, as they abandoned him as a sinner and an elf who had consorted with evil.  
  
This would have broken many elves, but his master hadn't. He had survived, and had joined the Exile Fleet willingly. 'The best thing I could have done.' he was known to say 'for now I can work my art without fear of dire repercussions.' In Silvermoon, he had been given all leeway to forge a city both powerful and durable. Consequently, the light in his eyes, and the passion in his voice, had never been anything but high and steady as he worked miracles.  
  
He flushed in embarrassment. "I am sorry sir. I was just thinking that...well...that...Silvermoon. Silvermoon's becoming a true city, isn't it?"  
  
The still-handsome parts of Derrigal's skin stretched into a smile as he looked out at the city he was working hard to design. "Yes. Yes, it is. And I intend to make it so enchanting, so beautiful, that all elven hearts will be filled with joy upon sighting its walls, and its towers and banners. This city will be the capitol city of Quel'Thalas - a great realm one day I'm certain. This will be my message, child."  
  
"A message of achievement."  
  
"A message of hope, rather."  
  
He couldn't help it: he looked at his friend and mentor - the only elf he fully confided in, after Weil - and blurted: "Hope? But we have hope! With Queen Narra leading us, harm will never befall us!"  
  
"That is what they said about Azshara, too, child. And in the beginning, they were right. She was a good elf, but so reckless, so arrogant. So confident that she could control others."  
  
Evorin flushed again, in reactive anger this time. Of all the great people of Silvermoon - Leval, Alibia, Dehire, Medarin - of all of them, none could even come close to the respect and admiration he had for Narra Pureglade, who had forced the people together and, by that, ensured their freedom and survival. He thus disliked when anyone attempted to slight her, even a good friend who had helped him for six summers now.  
  
"The queen isn't trying to control anyone!" he said hotly, and then before he could stop himself "You've seen her, you should know!"  
  
If the elven architect was upset by what his younger friend had said, he did not show it. Instead, taking things in stride as he always did, he calmly replied. "I know this. You are right, I HAVE seen her. She is not Azshara. Colder to begin with, but a stronger honour and good will towards others, if one looks deeper. Yes, it is very unlikely that she will be corrupted, especially with the people she keeps around herself..." he stopped, thoughtful. "However..."  
  
"However?"  
  
"However, child, there is the fact that a few will believe and think ill of her. Not just those outside Quel'Thalas' sphere of influence. Some, inside, do and probably always mistrust the queen. These, my young friend, are those we all must be wary of, lest they destroy what we are attempting to forge here."  
  
Evorin, first bewildered, remembered the conversation he had overheard many years ago. Two voices speaking ill of the queen. Dissenters? And in that case, were there many more. He had made an oath to watch over the queen then, and it had seemed childish soonafter, and he had forgotten. Now, however, with Derrigal speaking, he was forced to look at his oath far more seriously.  
  
"Depressing." he said, and that was all they said on the subject in the very end. Then the scarred elf regained his spirits, and sent him to fetch some ink. There was work to do, after all.  
  
'Indeed, sir.' Evorin said as he walked to the market 'I, too, have some work to do...'  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Six years later (86 AL)...  
  
Weil watched as the barricades of the village crumbled before the strength of a magical bolt and the press of the Remarrans who had attacked it. Already wounded from an arrow shot, she could only watch helplessly as the few remaining defenders of the town of Delfer desperately tried to maintain a position against far superior forces.  
  
The attacked had come faster than anyone had expected, and at the worst possible time, as the nearby garrisons had been pulled for a few days for new drills. A window of four days, which the Remarrans had taken. It had been all that the townspeople and the few soldiers remaining could do to barricade the wooden gates to the town and defend themselves. The enemy, however, had soldiers and magic.  
  
Weil had grown in a time of uncertainty and turmoil - she knew how to react to it. As soon as she had been informed of the situation, she had taken a few people with her and had worked to delay the enemy long enough for an evacuation to take place. It had been partially successful, as the population had been able to leave, but the enemy had seen them. They thus had no idea if the refugees had made it to the more secure lands near the capital.  
  
But whether or not they had, one thing was certain: Delfer could no longer be held. One of Queen Narra's five villages had fallen to the enemy.  
  
The enemy...when she'd been young, she'd found absurd the very idea that High Elves should war against each other when all resources and efforts should be cast on adapting and surviving in these new lands. These thoughts, however, had given place to the harsh reality of seeing friends fall, of being afraid, wounded, and most of all, angry.  
  
The Remarrans would get no more mercy from her than Trolls would. And that made her decision much easier to take in the end. She gestured to the two soldiers of any rank who remained, and they came close as soon as a respite came in the attacks.  
  
"We can't hold this town anymore." she said grimly "I have no intention of letting them win more than they already have. You know what this means..."  
  
They nodded to her. There was no need to explain further. "Then burn everything. Make certain they get nothing from Delfer. I can only hope we can now go and warn the queen. The Remarrans have decided to go on the offensive."  
  
From then on, she was certain, the war would become far more deadly than it had ever be thus far! 


	5. Narra Chapter Four 95 AL to 100 AL

Quel'Thalas, Realm in Exile  
  
Part One: Narra  
  
Chapter Four  
  
Ninety-five years After Landing (95 AL)  
  
Gorlon had always been brighter than the average, which was one reason other trolls had never liked him. Naturally a strong warrior, his ability to outthink anyone in his clan had forced respect and fear - but never admiration. Those who followed him followed because they knew he would take a high price from those who wouldn't come.  
  
Not that the large troll, standing taller than any seen in generation at well over eight feet, really minded the situation. Fear was fine enough from others. It made them do their tasks better. What he didn't like was that these newcomers - these purple skins - come into their lands and worked on them as if they had always belonged to them. Building homes sturdier than any troll hut, and making weapons of better make than any clan ever had, they strutted along the territories they had decided as their own, secure in their own arrogance and superiority.  
  
However, as much as he hated those who had come at the time of his grandfather's father, he had learned one thing for himself: he had learned that their arrogance wasn't simple words and shows of strength. These newcomers... these... ELVES, that was the word... had many who truly knew how to fight. Many raids had been launched upon elven settlements, and many more had failed than had been expected. He had led one such attempt. He had seen their anger and their strange powers; powers beyond what tribe shamans could muster, as well as the strength of their arrows.  
  
He had seen it and had been, for a little while, afraid.  
  
And for that, the elves had earned his undying hatred.  
  
A troll came close to him, baleful dark eyes under red bangs, and growled in barely disguised glee. "We sees them. Oh yeah, we sees them."  
  
Gorlon didn't move quite yet. "The elves?"  
  
"Yeah. The nasty purpleskins are jus' around the bend, walking in like they own this place." glee increased in the crazed eyes. "Haven't sees us, mon. What to do, what to do?"  
  
"Y'need to ask?" Gorlon grinned. "Signal the mons. We jump'em and kill every last elf."  
  
"Ohh, that's a good plan, very good plan, mon." The troll vanished at once, and Gorlon was left to his grimly amused thoughts. Was it a good plan? Not really. A satisfying one? Plenty of that!  
  
He took his position, up the though branch of a proud old tree which hid him with its thick, elderly branches. Below him, a narrow pass hidden by the shadows cast by the forest, thick with vegetation. Nothing stirred but the far-off noise of some stream and that of forest insects.  
  
And then he saw them. Twelve elves he counted in his mind. Seven of them were females. Amongst trolls, this would have been a good thing. Not with elves. Females were nasty amongst them, nastier than the males in many ways. It was the one in the lead - a dour-eyed female - he personally selected for his strike. They were moving through the woods without making a sound, truly at ease in this environment.  
  
Unfortunately for the poor, arrogant fools, trolls were equally as good in the forest. No, not as good. Better. They still knew the terrain better, although the elves were catching on too fast for anyone's liking. Still, it gave them an edge. Enough to let them pass undetected until they were in their grasp, right were they wanted them to.  
  
One moment all was silence. And the next moment, Gorlon jumped on the female with a yell, followed by other trolls before he was on the ground. Very suddenly, the quite wood trail had become a fierce battlefield.  
  
The female had one of these large elf bows, and raised it the moment he yelled. If he hadn't been utterly on top of her, the shot would have gone off and killed him, he was fairly certain. However, the angle made the shot impossible. It went wide, and the troll fell on her with all of his weights, hefting the two steel battleaxes he had once taken from corpses of dwarves who had strayed too far of their underground pits and hovels. He swung them simultaneously, cutting off an arm and the female's head before she could react, rolled away from the corpse, and came to his feet roaring.  
  
He might never have bothered. Other elves had fallen in the surprise assault, so that only five stood against more then twenty trolls. They fought in sort of hazy rage certainly brought by fear, and managed to kill two trolls before they, in turn, were killed, one by one. Implacably and efficiently.  
  
Once again, the forest became calmer, with only the blood and corpses to tell of the attack, which had taken place.  
  
Gorlon didn't waste any time in directing his men. "Take their weapons and whatever you want, and then let's go. I want out of this place, mons. Elves are quick to check up on vanished warparties."  
  
"And if they do? We just kill them, mon!" one of the others told him. He immediately threw one of his axes at him, killing him on the spot. A troll head joined the elven corpses, rolling wetly on the overgrown soil.   
  
Gorlon hefted his other axe. "One, day, one strike. We take, we leave. Those are my rules, mons. Any want to talk stupid with that?" No one wanted to. "Then get the gear and let's leave. There'll be other days to take elven lives." he grinned to himself. Many other days. As many as he could. As many as all tribes could. Until fear of the newcomers went away.  
  
Until the newcomer elves feared the Troll Tribes of the forests.  
  
* * *  
  
Five years later (100 AL)...  
  
"A messenger?" Narra Pureglade, ruler of Silvermoon and queen of Quel'Thalas, raised an eyebrow even as she rose from her seat by the window. She had taken to looking out from this place, high atop the keep constructed by her people for her, and had seen the city of Silvermoon grow from a ramshackle town of dirty streets to a small city which almost gave a feel of home to her. It wasn't like the jungles of Ashenvale, or the city of Nighthaven. It still lacked much sophistication of elven civilizations, but it was much better than anything else the High Elves had on this colder continent.  
  
Three weeks ago, the last stone had been put in place, completing the large wall painstainkingly built to protect them, finally sealing off troll and Remarran attacks to a far larger degree. Not that the Remarrans or the trolls had tried to test Silvermoon much. Instead, it had been the other way around. For the last decade, her forces - led by the new riders the huntresses had created - had managed to beat back the enemy, albeit at high costs. Now, only a relatively small army stood between them and Remarra. The people who wished to return to reckless usage of arcane power were losing quickly.  
  
Thus, knowing the haughty pride of her enemies, and the lengths to which they had many times shown they were willing to go to win any engagement, the last thing she had expected was a messenger. It surprised her...and made her immediately suspicious.  
  
She faced the young man who had come to see her, dressed in the attire of a servant. She hated what that made of her culture and of herself, but hid it as she spoke. "Unusual. And you say he comes from Remarra?"  
  
"Yes, Your Highness. With words from their leaders, meant only for your ears."  
  
She liked this even less. It reeked of something, and she wasn't certain of what. She quickly decided upon a course of action. "I will see him...with my husband. Where is the King?"  
  
"Already receiving the messenger, Your Highness. He sent me for you at once."  
  
She had to hide a grin at that. Of course, Levak would already be there. She had always been the warrior of the pair, and he had always been the philosopher. Thus, he was always quick to react to the possibility of peace, whereas she was more wary of it. This did not make him a fool - Elune knew he wasn't! - but he had certain gullibility for sweet lies that made her cringe at times. She had better hurry on to him.   
  
"I suppose they're in the private meeting chamber? Lead me there." she said, and the servant bowed.   
  
The way was short - the meeting room was near the place where she preferred to reflect - and before long she entered, preceded by the announcement. 'The Queen of Quel'Thalas.' Two elven males rose at once. One was Levak, calm and soft-faced with gentle, wise eyes, dressed in an elaborate tunic befitting his rank as Royal Consort and Lord of Silvermoon. She knew he hated dressing for occasions, preferring to attend meetings or discuss plans with workers and builders. But he was also a wise elf, who knew how to receive exalted guest - even Remarran ambassadors.  
  
The other elf was taller than her dear mate, and at once she felt it. Magic. Strong magic. Carefully kept in check, but inescapable from her old Huntress senses. This elf - dressed well but not gaudily, sporting a game and fair face, was a sorcerer. And a powerful one. Not as powerful as Medarin, she felt. But too close for comfort.  
  
She let none of the tension show as she greeted the other elf. "I welcome you to our city, messenger. Or should I say Ambassador?"  
  
"Oh, Highness, please." the other elf said mildly, smoothly "I am but a messenger here, to give you an offer from the people of Remarra to end this unfortunate conflict."  
  
She raised her eyebrows. "I find it ironic, that after all this time the people of Remarra would send a message. Many times over the seasons have the people of Quel'Thalas sought such a parley, but they were refused. And now you come, strangely at the time when Remarra is protected by your last forces, and is, from what we have heard, in quite a tumultuous state."  
  
The other elf was a master. Nothing showed on his features as he spoke, always mild. "Rumours, Your Majesty. Only rumours and unfortunate times. What matters is that we are here now."  
  
"Still," Levak said as gently as ever "The war between Quel'Thalas and the Remarrans has cost many lives, made worse by troll raids along our frontier towns. We welcome you, but your will forgive us if we are somewhat sceptical of your claims. For now, at least."  
  
She gave her mate a quick, grateful look. Although he was all for peace, he had all but said that he would support whatever decision she would be making. It lifted a certain weight from her ever-heavy load. She gave the messenger a penetrating look, which he held quite well. She gave a nod.  
  
"Does Remarra wish for peace?" she didn't believe it, but she wasn't about to cross the point of no return. Quel'Thalas had been built to better High Elven lives, not destroy them.  
  
There was no hesitation as the other gave a sharp affirmative gesture. "Completely. We are ready for peace."  
  
"Then by all means. States your leaders' proposal." 'And we will see whether you can lie well or not.' she thought grimly, as she sat at the meeting table with the two males.  
  
* * *  
  
Three Months Later (100 AC)...  
  
Weil looked sombre as she packed her few possessions. "I can't believe the Queen'd do this." she muttered "After all the sacrifices, we're almost there. We've almost won. And she suddenly just turns around and buys into the Remarran talk of coexistence."  
  
The young male who stood at the flap of her tent shrugged. "I'm certain Her Highness has her reasons."  
  
"And if those reasons are wrong?"  
  
There was a long pause. "She hasn't led us astray in the fifty summers of her rule, has she?"  
  
The young female wasn't surprised by the tone of her friend. Almost ever since he had set foot upon this new world of theirs, hurt and reeling from the sad loss of his parents, Evorin had worshipped Narra Pureglade, then just the leader of small, motley village. He had found no fault in her, and had supported her actions. Even those, which were ambiguous.  
  
Weil herself had a more realistic view of things. She had seen the deaths caused by Pureglade's hesitations, her plans, and her direct actions. She had seen many flaws - pride, reluctance to being in charge, and sometimes the hauteur only a huntress could show. It wasn't like she didn't respect the Queen. Quel'Thalas was a better place than anywhere else on this wretched piece of land, and Narra had been a generally benevolent ruler. But there were still things she could question, where Evorin would never question.  
  
Like this. Dozens of seasons, fighting off repeated offensives by the Remarrans - with three coming to the walls of Silvermoon itself; Losing comrades upon comrades in the bloody skirmishes. Dealing with grief and loss. And now, as the Remarran lines were breaking, as the Queen's forces were ready for the very last push, the Queen decided to listen to those liars and establish peace.  
  
No matter how she looked at it, she found that decision reckless, not to mention dangerous.  
  
She wasn't about to argue with her oldest friend, however. "Well, let's hope everything goes alright. We're part of Her Highness' personal envoy, and I don't intend to slip up." 'Or trust in one's judgement as blindly as you do', she thought.  
  
Evorin turned, and she marvelled how much he changed from the grief-stricken boy or the slim, almost frail elven adolescent he had been. The last sign of childhood had gone last year, and although young Evorin Eltrass was a study of perfect elven features, with a slim but athletic body honed by years of devotion to Quel'Thalas and the Queen. She had seen many of the young females looking at him in frank interest, and she couldn't really blame them. Too bad he had no idea of the effect he caused others sometimes.  
  
"Don't you think it would be better, if the High Elves stopped warring amongst themselves and rather fought against nature, and the trolls' rampage?"  
  
She grunted. "Of course I believe that. But I also happen to believe that the Remarrans started this war, and made sure it continued. This might be only prejudice - I don't have much faith in sorcery, even when used by our people - but I'll take this sudden conciliatory attitude with a grain of salt. And so should you, if I may say so."  
  
He shrugged gracefully, fingering the pommel of his sword. It was rather finely made - the new smithies weren't up to Kalimdorian standard, but decades of need and efforts were paying off at last. "I suppose you're right. I can't really tell for myself. So far, the only things I've fought are trolls."  
  
"Good for you. Killing trolls is hard enough. Killing other elves truly hurts the soul." she muttered. She had far too many images seared in her mind. So many sacrifices.... This was one of the reason she didn't want the army's actions brushed aside like the Queen was doing, whether or not that thinking was right.  
  
Not that Evorin could know. He had joined the army as soon as his boyhood had been all but gone, but most of his previous postings had been safe inside the walls of Silvermoon, which had seen little action for at least the last three summers. As far as his stories went, he had only encountered trolls twice, in easy skirmishes. And that was all very well with Weil. She didn't wish to lose the only elf she considered family. She sighed. "Well, let's be vigilant. They might try to ambush the queen or the like."  
  
It had more of an effect than she thought it would. He faced her with a sudden, quiet intensity, his face suddenly taut and pensive. "Yes, you're quite right. And I won't allow that to happen Weil."  
  
She couldn't help but be taken aback by the ice in his tone. "Calm yourself. The queen will be well-protected, and I don't really thing they'd do something this foolish."  
  
"Perhaps not directly, no." he said, grimly. To him, it seemed as if pieces had begun to fall together. "Perhaps not directly...yet..."  
  
"Yet?" she prompted. But he simply shook his head with a smirk.  
  
"No, impossible. I am seeing things that aren't there, surely." he took a deep breath. "Well, let us get prepared, by Elune!" And without letting her a chance to make him stay, he gracefully swept out of the tent, into the camp.  
  
She looked at the place Evorin had bee standing at. Remembering his face, the strange, intense look he'd had. "Evo, you really are making this trip a lot more complex and unsavory than ever before."  
  
* * *  
  
Two weeks later (100 AL)...  
  
"So, do we do it?" a voice asked as two shapes looked over the Thalassian encampment. Four dozen tents were there, many small ones surrounding the large ones belonging to the queen's advisors and the queen herself. Many fires were going on, and the smell of cooking could be smelt far away. At regular intervals, elven soldiers were posted, standing rigid and looking deep into the woods, seeing nearly as clearly as they would during the day.   
  
This was a large, well-armed camp. There was no chance the Trolls would try anything, although anyone who knew things and admitted them to himself could surmise they had already come. There was no danger to the queen that way. But this way, at least, the attention was diverted outward, leaving the queen vulnerable.  
  
And yet. "No...no, we will not do it."  
  
"What?!? This would be the perfect opportunity!" the other voice hissed, clearly incensed. "She is far from Silvermoon, far from her keep and the foolish adoration a populace has for her! She is vulnerable!"  
  
"You are a fool if you believe it is so. You many have conveniently forgotten, or perhaps you didn't know, but Narra Pureglade was a Huntress once. The best of her kind despite her relative youth. They say that Tyrande Whisperwing herself trained her. Even by herself, she is a great threat. And there are strong people amongst her advisors. No, we will wait."   
  
This did not please the second, more impatient voice. "This might take far too long, and our people no longer have the time! The usurper's army is larger than ours, and they have a few sorcerers themselves, albeit few. Our lines are crumbling, our people defecting! We..."  
  
"Do you think I need a reminder of our plight?" The first voice asked, voice calm but suddenly seized with a cold edge. It stopped the other person short. There was a moment of strained silence, punctuated only by the sounds of the wild.  
  
"No, of course not." the other voice at last said, more grudgingly than was proper. "But this still remains a grand occasion! Our best in at least two decades!"  
  
"I am aware of that. But there are complications. I do not trust her mate, King Levak. He is known to be very shrewd. And then there is Dehire himself, a powerful druid. THAT one is a nightmare, and will cost us much if we do anything. No, the time is not right. But I trust we will see it for ourselves soon."  
  
  
  
"And if we don't?"  
  
"Then we will improvise one, my friend. After all, remember that the Queen has much confidence in what I say."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Four days later (100 AL)...  
  
The days were getting longer and colder, signalling with the colouring of the leaves the end of summer. The coming of the new land's autumn, though sad because of the much colder climes the following months would be, were also a period of awe which the elves never tired of.   
  
In Kalimdor, the leaves stayed the same through all seasons, as the climate never changed much. Here, the leaves of the three turned from green to a myriad of bright colours. Oranges, reds, yellows and gold littered the soil, falling from the branch like a magical ritual. It was an awe-inspiring sight of nature's continuing cycle in this part of the world.  
  
Weil wished, however, that the times were as pleasant as the sights. However, it did not happen to be so. It was, in fact the opposite. She glared across the beautiful, forested valley, across from the tents which showed the green, gold and deep blue of Quel'Thalas to the cluster farther on, which in turn sported purple, silver and magenta. The colours of Dath Remar, and of the city named after him. They had arrived only two days ago, and a large tent had been erected exactly in the middle of the two groups, in plain grey, to hold the meetings between both leaderships.  
  
"Well, I can look at this on the bright side." she muttered a bit sullenly "The Remarrans'd be foolish to attack in the open, and I don't think the trolls'll try to do anything against a group as large as ours has become." she sighed. Why didn't it make her happy? Had she become one of these elves who thrived on conflict? Elune, let it be not so!! Yet, she felt so restless...  
  
She took her bow and strapped her sword. Her shift wouldn't begin for a little bit yet, but she'd go there and take her post anyway, if only to talk a bit and relieve the stress. She envied Evorin's trust in the Queen. He was acting with apparent confidence, certain that Narra and her advisors would settle everything without bloodshed. That naiveté. was both endearing and irritating, but she could only admit that the young male looked more rested than she had felt in many moons because of that very belief.  
  
"The Queen's entourage will never know that an elf struck the killing blow. The proof will all point to the trolls. Let the primitive monsters bring the wrath of the foolish usurpers upon themselves!"  
  
Weil stopped short of the place where her post would have been but a little while later. Voices. Preoccupied, talking very fast. Much emotion in the voices. It was only after a moment that the sentence she had heard fully registered, and then her stomach quickly turned to cold, hard lead. There was no doubting what she was hearing. They were talking about killing the queen and blaming the trolls for it. People of Quel'Thalas, committing treason! She clenched her teeth, and then soundlessly glided closer, until she crouched behind the bushed, which hid the conspirators.  
  
Only the training given to her and the years of skirmishing against both elves and trolls alike kept her from gasping as she recognized the one who had been talking to another figure in the shadows. It was unmistakably Tantril, the most powerful arcane spellcaster in Silvermoon, save for Medarin himself. He had been the only one to have survived the making of the life-saving Sunwell, and had participated in many crucial battles against the Remarran forces. Few were as trusted in Silvermoon.  
  
And he was openly talking of betrayal.  
  
She tried to discern who was the other speaker, but couldn't recognize anyone, even with her night-vision - too far and too blurry to make anyone out. Instead, she carefully listened for more information.  
  
The other elf - she could tell it was an elf, at least, if nothing else - muttered something, to which the elf almost laughed. "Medarin?!? The old fool doesn't know anything at all! He's blind to our cause now, if he ever believed in it in the first place! He teaches whoever comes with even a bit of potential, even those who have no hint of Quel'Dorei blood in their veins. No, he will not help us. In fact, we will have to act against him right after Pureglade dies, or he will ruin our plans."  
  
Another, stronger mutters. "No, worry not! Dehire doesn't know. And even if he did, he's far away, holed up in the trees gossiping with the birds like all Druids of the Claw do. He's no danger here. And he's the only one who could figure out that no Trolls are anywhere near the environs with his natural links."  
  
There was a strong mutter now, and she actually picked up the voice this time. It was a familiar voice, one that she had heard before, certainly. An image came of the Maelstrom, of Dath Remar's proud ship, sinking. And there...  
  
Before she could go any further in her musings, she felt hands take hold of her arms. Female hands, trained and hard, Training and instinct too over as she cursed herself for leaving herself open for even just one instant. She lashed out at them, but they held firm, another pair took hold of her neck and choked her. She struggled as hard as she could, and opened her mouth to growl out something, only to have a hand forcefully close her mouth. Still, she kept struggling, angrily trying to break free of the three females who held her.  
  
"Ah, poor child" a voice purred. "You truly hid yourself well, but you should know there are elves who have much more experience in this sort of thing than you do. That oversight, I fear, will cost you."  
  
"What goes here?" Tantril's voice came to Weil's ears, and she looked to see him approaching. He gave her s scornful look, and then gave the others his attention. "This is no time to be playing. Sarana. Not at this time. I can't afford to have her tell anything. Just knock her out, and then we shall see what we should do about this one.  
  
"Whatever you say." Sarana purred. At that moment, the one who had been in shadows came into focus, and Weil gave a surprised grunt. ELUNE, THAT'S-  
  
A blow came, and everything became darkness.  
  
* * *  
  
Two days later (100 AL)...  
  
Levak was a patient man, but even he, admittedly, had limits. And the Remarran delegation was quickly reaching these limits. "I don't think your incessant attacks upon our territories were what could sanely be called 'Harmless forays', sir. I dare to say Quel'Thalas owes you little in the way of reparations!"  
  
The ambassador sat shockstill, his fine features slightly twisted into a scornful mien. "And I suppose your actions, taking our own territory and villages at your whim, is in turn only a bit of diplomatic movement?"  
  
"What you are talking about is the direct cause of your people's inability to accept another sovereign power-"  
  
"And you are?" the other elf retorted. Blue eyes met blue eyes in a contest of will, which was hastily broken by Medarin's steady voice.  
  
"Please, please sirs! Today was tiring, and I propose that we adjourn this meeting and start fresh tomorrow morning."  
  
The Remarran looked at Medarin stiffly, and was answered with a calm, challenging look. He relented with obvious reluctance. "You are...quite right. Your Majesty, honoured advisors." His acknowledgements, bare and forced, done, he and his entourage quickly picked up their items and haughtily left the meeting tent, leaving only the Thalassian delegation.  
  
Levak looked towards his queen and love, which had barely participated in the entire encounter and talks that day. He felt personal shame at his outburst. He, a philosopher, lowered to trading insults with another. Unconceivable! "I am sorry, my Queen. I let my emotions get the better of me. It is unusual and will not happen again."  
  
"Don't hit yourself too badly over that, Sire." Medarin grinned. "I lived with these people for years. Was one of them for years. I know how trying we 'Highborn' can be. As far as I am concerned, you showed much restrain."  
  
"Still, this was childish. I shouldn't have-"  
  
"Levak, everything about this is childish." Narra finally spoke at last, her first words in a long while. "Everything. And I think that its a voluntary happenstance." she settled her gentle but commanding gaze on him. "Surely you felt that as well."  
  
He was about to say that no, he hadn't felt anything out of the ordinary, but refrained. There was something wrong here, and he HAD felt something. He had never been much of a diplomat, more interested in more abstract matters of the will and the mind than in dealing with people, but he noticed certain things. The Remarrans always agreed on what was being said, but always picked small details to do battle on, often wasting the entire session altogether. They had done this many times.  
  
"They're stalling." he muttered, and Narra gave an approving nod. Danai, the Huntress who had risen to become the head of the Quel'Thalas military forces, frowned.  
  
"Stalling? Your Highness, I may be bold in speaking this way, but it doesn't make much sense. I receive reports from our scouts every day, and there is no indication that what remains of their forces have moved from the defensive positions they took. Even if they were stalling, so many defected to our side, so many settlements are aligned with Silvermoon now that they would lose any renewed conflict our of sheer lack of manpower!"  
  
This small résumé didn't seem to deter Levak's beloved, however. "I know. But I think that when we fought this costly war, we forgot about the many subtler ways that it might be won."  
  
"An assassin?" Medarin said with a hint of disgust. As it should be. Killing was to be loathed, but killing from behind was considered lower than low. "Even so, do they believe that the realm would fall from your death, or the death of our entire advisory council? I doubt it. They are desperate, but they are not fools."  
  
Levak mused on this. True, Silvermoon now had a solid base, and it was impossible that any death would bring it down. But it would destabilize it, perhaps long enough for the Remarrans to do some damage. Perhaps simply for them to sit and watch as the enemy, which almost destroyed their society, would weaken quickly. Perhaps it would destabilize it forever. This scared him almost as much as losing Narra to an assassin. The philosopher in him, however, immediately made connections.  
  
"It could have to do with the strange disappearance we had two days ago. One of our soldiers, a female named Weil, disappeared without a trace shortly before her shift."  
  
Danai cupped her chin and closed her eyes. "I admit it was a strange occurrence. Weil was known as a dutiful, promising youth. Not the kind to flee into the wild. I admit that it has...bothered me when I learned of it all. But perhaps I didn't look into it enough. I will talk to her kin, whom is known as rising star himself as they say."  
  
The Queen nodded. "Do everything you can. I want this situation cleared out. I want to know what they are planning. I want to know if it is against me, the realm, anything. Find me answers, Danai!" her last sentence was said with all the strength of a Huntress behind it, and the military leader sat a little straighter in her chair.  
  
"If there is anything to be found, Your Highness, then I shall find it. You have my word on this." she said firmly.  
  
"I will help you." Medarin said, but Danai shook her head.  
  
"Thank you, lord Medarin, but that will not be necessary. My Queen, My King." She bowed to Narra, then to Levak, and left the tent quickly, sword slapping on her tight softly. Medarin watched her go with a somewhat bitter smirk.  
  
"I can't do it, can I? No matter how many years I have worked for Silvermoon, no matter the efforts I put into teaching magic to whoever has the will to use it...I'm still a Remarran." His voice was dejected upon saying so, albeit his face did not show much sign of it, save for the smirk. Levak wanted to say something, but knew it would be wasted. It was, after all, true: although Medarin was a respected man in Silvermoon now, some in Quel'Thalas still refused to work with him.  
  
Narra interjected. "They are fewer now. But some are fear, keep to their prejudice." Levak felt she wasn't talking only about Medarin's case in that. "But, we must do what we must. And deal with that which would jeopardize with the health of our young realm."  
  
"For Quel'Thalas, my love?"  
  
"And for the High Elves, as it will always be. As long as my...our line... endures."  
  
* * *  
  
Three days later (100 AL)...  
  
"Evorin, I understand your concern, but what you're asking is impossible." The captain told the anxious elven warrior. "I don't see why the Remarrans would have Weil, but even if they did, there's nothing we'd be able to do!"  
  
"But, sir..." he struggled with the words, reined in his own panic. "We can feel something's wrong. These talks - they're not going rightly, and we all know it. Maybe Weil found something she shouldn't have."  
  
The captain spread his hands in a helpless and equally frustrated gesture. "A supposition, my friend. And we can't search an armed enemy camp on suppositions. For all the others know, Weil went to the Enclave or worse, willingly joined the Remarran army."  
  
"Never!" Evorin nearly exploded, "Weil would never betray Quel'Thalas, never betray the Queen." 'And', a frightened voice sounded in his head 'Even if she did, she wouldn't leave me...would she?'  
  
The captain grimaced, probably at the accusation he had just made. Although rough-tongued and inflexible, he had always put faith in his people and trusted them. "Do you truly think I do not realize that? Weil is one of the best and most loyal. You want the truth? You might well be right. But the talks between our leaders and the Remarra delegation are flimsy enough as it is, and we can't afford to fight here. Our mutual strength is the only thing, which makes these grounds safe. I trust you remember why?"  
  
Who could forget. In order to dispel any further tension to the already volatile situation, both sides had agreed to meet in a territory unclaimed by either side. Diplomatically correct, the decision put the meeting place right in the middle of what was certainly troll territory. Trolls...how Evorin loathed the beasts, and the knowledge they were one reason he couldn't look for Weil only deepened these feelings. His shoulders sagged in defeat.  
  
"Then there is nothing to do. They have Weil, I am certain of this. And we cannot do a thing about that fact." he said.  
  
This simple sentence almost killed him then and there. Once century, since the exiled High Elves had come to this land and built up small settlements as best they could. It had been a century started by the grief he had felt when he had lost his parents, and it would end with the loss of another elf he loved. The very thought made him sick at heart. But it was the truth.   
  
The captain nodded, a grim look crossing his face. "You are right. There is nothing we can do." there was a pause, and the his eyes narrowed slightly "Officially, that is."  
  
Evorin looked at the captain, his eyes questioning. "Sir?"  
  
"If, however, someone was to enter that camp without my express knowledge," the captain continued with a strange, ironic tone of voice "It would be possible for us to feign ignorance and avoid the incident which could restart this conflict."  
  
"Sir, if I may speak?"  
  
"But of course."  
  
"These talks are a facade." Evorin said, "A facade brought by our own disgust at killing our own people, at the lives taken when we should be focusing only on rebuilding. It's also a move made out of desperation. They had the magical advantage, but magic has become too painful for them, since they still live outside of the Sunwell's growing influence. Their armies are beaten, their people on the road to open revolt..."  
  
"All that is known to me." The captain pointed out "To the point, young one, if you may."  
  
"I believe they know the Queen or her councillors will never believe them. They are not fools. Fools wouldn't have prepared something for so long...I know there is something afoot. And I intend to find it."  
  
The captain looked at him with a long, penetrating gaze. The elf male had been one of the first to join in Silvermoon's rising army, and had proven himself in battle many times. Evorin's words, suddenly, sounded like a childish rant even to his own ears - a naive speak made by a male who had never been directly involved in the war.   
  
Was that what Weil saw at times?  
  
But his concern for her and for the Queen was too great. He stood his ground, looking back upon the one who commanded him with as much determination as he could muster. At last, the captain gave a slight snort of amusement, and broke the contest.  
  
"As I said. As long as one is not caught, or is not officially asked to do a thing, the danger is minimal. You have my unofficial blessing if you wish to do something."  
  
Evorin sighed, closed his eyes. "Thank you sir." he bowed, and began to leave the tent, but the warrior's voice stopped him.  
  
"Bring her back, young Evorin."  
  
The young male's voice was firm. "If she lives, I will. If she does not..." his voice shook "...I will as well!"  
  
And he was gone.  
  
* * *  
  
One hour later (100 AL)...  
  
The meeting was tense. Everyone at the table had begun this conflict with confidence in their abilities, certain that the 'silly huntress dream' that Narra Pureglade had engineered - this Quel'Thalas - would never stand to the might of their magics. Even the defection wrought by Medarin and his students hadn't made them worry.  
  
But for the last fifty years, the two sides had been locked in conflict, and the tide had turned to the rebellious ones' side. At first slowly, then more quickly, until by the last five summers nearly every battle had been lost, and they had lost control out of villages and settlements, until now. Their armies were pushed but one day's march out of their gates, faced with an even greater force which - they were grimly certain of this - would eventually prevail in a fight.  
  
Fortunately for them, they had spent much time preparing for such an unlikely development.   
  
"I cannot believe that we are in such a weak position that we have to use these means." One of the Highborn Councillors muttered "Couldn't we stand and fight? With our powers-"  
  
"What powers?" The head of the council asked. "Our magic is weakened, and is painful to use. While they, by living close to this...Sunwell...are healthy and able to use their lesser spells with impunity. Their sorcerers are not equal to ours, they are less in numbers, but they can freely use their spells. With our soldiers also feeling the emptiness and not those of Quel'Thalas, tell me, what would fighting do us?"  
  
Silence. The blonde, elder elf nodded. "There is no need to discuss it further then. We put the plan into motion. Daratu, are you quite ready?"  
  
The younger member, who had replaced Medarin upon the traitorous leave, looked at the rest of the council with a light of determination in his eyes. He had always wanted to prove his worth, and now he was given the chance of doing so, by carrying out this most important duty.  
  
"Yes, it is. The spell was subtly cast and reinforced over the years, and the subsequent details have been attended to." he paused a moment "Our agents were discovered at one time, but the interloper has been taken care of. All that remains is to carry the plan to its last step."  
  
The head of the Highborn grinned. "Then let it be so. Soon, the Queen of Quel'Thalas will meet her doom by the hands of the one she trusts more than anything else..."  
  
"...her King!"  
  
______________________________________ 


End file.
